


One More Voyage

by hampop



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Please be merciful, im not catholic but i'm doing research, just made for an more interesting narrative, reader is female but i'm not going into any other physical descriptons, so if i get something wrong, you're a nun but i don't focus on religion so no worries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:48:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hampop/pseuds/hampop
Summary: King Ferdinand IV has heard of Captain Salazar's survival and has called upon the crew of the Silent Mary to report back to Spain. Suspicious of the black magic that had cursed the Mary's crew for 25 years, the King and the Roman Catholic Church have decided to allow Salazar and his crew to continue their crusade against pirates under the condition that a member of the church accompany them for the first three years. You have yet to take your vows, but still, you are chosen. (Choose between the Salazar and Lesaro romance routes after Chapter 6!)
Relationships: Armando Salazar/Reader, Armando Salazar/You, Lesaro/reader, lesaro/you
Comments: 17
Kudos: 63





	1. Departure

**Author's Note:**

> READ THIS FIRST, alterations to the canon: Barbossa doesn’t sacrifice himself to kill Salazar—Carina just kicks him off he anchor chain b/c that’s literally all she would have had to do. And Salazar loses some of his crew to drowning but some of them survive alongside him and the other half of the crew is on the newly un-cursed Silent Mary. They don’t pursue The Pearl as Jack makes his escape because they spend an entire evening searching for Salazar and recovering the crewmen who survived; by that time, Jack is long gone.

Whispers had been circulating around the convent for weeks. Sisters who delighted in idle gossip as a much-needed pastime wouldn’t even bother to lower their voices in the hallways. Mother Superior had addressed their clucking a couple of nights ago, but what else were they supposed to do? Something as interesting and curious as this happened once in a blue moon. 

Even as you packed your things to meet the carriage at noon, you couldn’t expel the thoughts plaguing your mind. No one had been very open with you about your mission at sea so your only option was to let you imagination run wild. 

“I hardly think I’m qualified,” you meekly convey to Mother Superior. “I have yet to complete my vows. And isn’t all of this a bit . . . unusual?”

Mother Superior, an older woman whose skin had only just begun to wrinkle, gives you a look that says it all. She doesn’t know much more than you do and is simply following King Fernando IV’s orders. The two of you ride together in the jostling carriage as it makes its way toward the harbor. “It’s all been so sudden,” she admits. “I’m afraid I don’t have any answers for you.”

After a pause of silence made worse by the sick feeling of unrest rising in your stomach, you ask her, “Are the rumors true? Did Capitán Salazar and his crew—,”

She cuts you off with a single look. You swallow your breath, looking down at your folded hands. “Forgive me, Reverend Mother.” 

You don’t bring your gaze back up to her and, in time, she responds, “Such chatter is a distraction. Keep your thoughts pure and unclouded by such nonsense. 

The carriage eventually comes to a stop and the smell of the sea is potent even before the doors are opened. The coachman opens the door for the both of you and seems to flounder about momentarily, as though he wasn’t sure of the proper procedure. The sun is unbearably hot on this day in Barcelona; there was not a single cloud in the sky as the sun beat down upon the earth. You glance at Mother Superior’s black habit and are thankful, briefly, that you had yet to take you vows and were still wearing your white tunics. 

Of the ships that were tethered to the harbor, all of them were naval vessels. Their flags were a rich cream color and their wooden exteriors were a golden brown, painted with delicate red and golden details. Which meant that one ship in particular—one with dark brown wood and painted sails—stood out. 

You knew almost nothing about ships but even you could tell that this ship was several years older than the newer vessels on either side of it. It was much smaller in comparison and, admittedly, a bit uglier by design. It reminded you of your grandmother’s antique furniture—gaudy and extravagant. 

Mother Superior leads you across the harbor silently and you begin to realize why she has accompanied you. There are men all over the place—men in uniform and men . . . out of uniform. Some of them are modest when they spot the two of you and others are indeed not. But with Mother Superior as your guide and your role model, you look squarely ahead and follow her without letting your gaze stray. 

These were military men, after all, and most of them knew when to draw the line and behave. That being said, their gazes did linger as you walked past them. It was a bit pitiful. 

A man waits at the dock of the old ship. You recognize him as Deacon Estrada. For someone with such a timid and nervous nature, the Father Deacon was incredibly tall and thin. He looks at you with such an intense expression of discomfort and anxiety that it becomes contagious. 

“It’s highly irregular,” he says to Sister Superior. “Sisters do not do work with the outside world—let alone sail the seas! I know these orders have come from the king himself but surely the Church would have— _should have_ —swayed his judgement.”

The words spill from his mouth in a hurry, as though they were thoughts that he hadn’t meant to speak out loud but had no room for otherwise. Mother Superior fixes him with an understanding look that drips with exasperation. 

“She is not a sister yet, Father Deacon. She has yet to take her vows. That was specifically expressed in the King’s request. And she is the oldest of the group, as well. I am confident that there must be some purpose behind this decision—otherwise the orders would not have been so specific.”

“Orders,” he echoes, dabbing at his brow. “We are not soldiers—we don’t take orders. And this certainly isn’t missionary work.” He trails off in his thoughts, seeming to waddle between his left and right feet. You are beginning to feel the blood drain from your face, tightening your grip on your luggage. 

Was this a dangerous mission?

Mother Superior, losing her patience, attempts to qualm Deacon Estrada’s fears a second time, saying, “It’s out of our hands now. I’ve told my convent not to fall victim to these devilish rumors, do I have to tell you as well?” 

As the two of them converse back and forth, you hear the uneven thump of boots on wood accompanied by the hollow clack of a cane between each footfall. The sound is coming from above as someone begins to descend the ramp between the old boat and the dock. 

The sun blinds you as you gaze up and you lift a flattened palm to your forehead to shade your view. A man is coming down toward you at a steady, almost menacing pace. As you blink to be rid of the swimming black dots in your vision, you notice his uniform. It, like the ship, is outdated by many years with its black and white striped design. Even still, you knew at first glance that it was the garb of a high-ranking officer. You straighten your back instinctively as he approaches. He is followed by another man, though you struggle to see him past the sunlight. 

Mother Superior and Deacon Estrada finally take notice of the company and turn to address him. Despite all her talk of chatter and needless gossip, Mother Superior appears a bit uneasy in the man’s presence. 

Father Deacon Estrada quickly realizes that the officer and his companion are not going to be the first to speak and unfortunately takes it upon himself to begin the introductions. As he speaks, you look around the port and notice that the other servicemen are watching with strained, tense expressions. It’s so quiet that you can hear the flapping of seagull wings as they fly from mast to mast. 

Mother Superior catches you looking around and swats at your hand to refocus your attention. When you turn back to the naval officer, your vision has been completely regained. 

He’s an older man, possibly in his mid-forties. His hair is pulled back—another strange and out of date stylistic choice. His face is solemn and unyielding, staring down the poor Deacon as the clergyman continues to rattle off formalities. You can’t help but inwardly laugh at all the frightening rumors being spread about him; he didn’t look undead to you. In fact, he was rather handso—

\--his eyes slide over to you. Once you are the center of his attention, everything changes. Goosebumps prickle the skin of your arms and you begin to fidget aimlessly with the suitcase. Deacon Estrada is still in the middle of speaking when the man—Capitán Armando Salazar—interrupts him. 

“Is this her?” he asks, gesturing to you with the tip of the cane. His voice is much deeper than you imagined. 

Deacon Estrada gapes for a moment, thrown asunder, before answering, “Yes, this is the novitiate.”

“Very good. Come on then.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the ship, beckoning you aboard. Then he turns heel and brushes past the other man, swiftly retreating back on deck. 

Mother Superior and Father Deacon Estrada look a bit caught off guard. You glance between the ship and the two of them, waiting for your cue. Eventually, Mother Superior shakes her head in bewilderment and addresses the officer left behind. He is dressed in a similar old fashion, but his uniform is a solid dark charcoal and his left eye is donned with an eyepatch. 

“We still have matters to discuss! I want to make sure her accommodation is up to the standards of the monastery and speak with the Capitán about the behavior of the crew . . . and those are just the first things that come to mind!” Her face is starting to redden with anger.

The officer hears her out up until this point before he smirks, amused almost, and says, “That is what I am here for. You must understand that the Capitán . . . he is on a tight schedule. We have travelled to Barcelona under orders from King Phi—King Ferdinand IV. The trip has been a delay in the Capitán’s agenda. He is eager to leave as soon as possible.”

“Well, I understand that. But this is as important to me as this ‘agenda’ is to him, I assure you.” Mother Superior retorts. Father Deacon seems perfectly content allowing her the reigns of the conversation. “I would like to inspect the ship.”

“I am afraid that is not possible,” says the officer, mirth leaving his expression. “Only the novitiate is allowed on deck as she has been given express permission by the Church. And I must ask you say your goodbyes quickly; we are due to set sail as soon as she comes aboard.” 

With that, he bids his farewell and also returns on deck. 

Mother Superior shakes her head but does not lose stride a second time. Instead she turns to you and says a short prayer for you. Deacon Estrada does the same soon after and they both seem to hover for a moment, unsure of how to leave. Mother Superior finally sighs and grasps both of your hands in her own. It was very rare to see her be so personal and open. She says, “God will watch over you, my dear. Remember your teachings and stay true.” Then she and the Deacon departed back toward the carriage. 

You stood there watching them go, shocked at how easy it was for them to abandon you. Then you heard men shouting above deck and slowly decided there was only one way to go. 

The deck of the _Silent Mary_ was alive with movement. Men were rushing back and forth performing tasks with expertise you could only imagine was honed from years and years of service. When you step foot onto the deck, eyes seem to follow you even though you struggle to make eye-contact with any specific individual. The officer from before is waiting for you. 

“Please forgive the unorthodox greeting, sister,” he says with a pleasant smile. Sweat gleams on his brow and you wonder how he’s standing in this heat with all that fabric on him. “We’re struggling to relearn normalcy.” 

“Oh, I’m not a ‘sister’ yet. I’ve not taken my vows.” You try to correct him softly and with an understanding smile. He extends an arm toward the quarterdeck. 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Let me show you to your quarters.”

As he guides you, you ask, “Did I not catch your name before, sir?”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a ring of keys. “I did not say it,” he admits, “I was worried it would prolong the conversation with the Reverend Mother. But I am Lieutenant Lesaro, Second in Command to Capitán Salazar.” 

Oh, so he was very high ranking as well. You think back over the words you’ve spoken to him thus far, searching them for any embarrassing informalities. In the meantime, he’s found the key he was looking for and unlocks the cabin door. 

The room is cramped, big enough to contain a small cot and a short dresser for clothing. You step inside, and though Lieutenant Lesaro just stands in the doorway, you begin to feel very claustrophobic. There wasn’t even a small window to speak of. 

“This is where you will be staying,” he says, “It’s not very luxurious, I’m afraid. But for a three year voyage, it will do.”

You set the luggage down on top of the dresser and smoothen out your habit, trying to not come off as disappointed. “It’s fine, thank you.” 

It had been a very, very long time since you’d been left alone with a man for more than a few minutes. And though the Lieutenant appeared perfectly civil, you still felt a twinge of discomfort. You’d have to get used to that eventually. It would just be you and the crew for the months to come. 

“Lieutenant?” you ask him just as he’s about to make his exit. He pauses and folds his hands behind his back politely, awaiting your query. “I was told . . . almost nothing about this voyage. I don’t know why I was chosen or why my being here is necessary. Could you tell me, please?”

His brow furrows in confusion. “They told you nothing? You don’t know . . . anything about us?”

You shake your head. “Well, I’ve heard rumors. Silly ones. I know they aren’t true.” You laugh a little to punctuate your statement but the sound falls flat when you see his astonished features. 

“I’m . . . not sure where to begin.” He says, visibily struggling to find the words. Just as he opens his mouth again, you can hear that same deep voice barking orders from above. Lieutenant Lesaro offers you an apologetic look. “I must go now. But the Capitán would like to speak with you tonight over dinner. I’m sure he can answer your questions then.”

And with a tip of his hat, Lesaro departs up the stairs and you’re left alone.


	2. Over Dinner

Your cabin aboard the Silent Mary did not contain a mirror of any sort, so it was difficult to see whether or not you looked presentable. That was the nice thing about wearing a habit, though; the modesty of it was always guaranteed. You had unpacked your things hours ago and had since been sitting quietly in the cabin, waiting for someone to come get you and tell you what to do next. At one point, you had considered venturing upstairs to explore, but the sea sickness had crept upon you and you were resigned to lying in bed. 

Just walking about the cabin proved to be difficult; you had heard of the term “sea legs” before but had never experienced sailing first-hand. Indeed, it was disorienting. Part of you regretted that you couldn’t watch Barcelona’s shoreline disappear on the horizon and the other part of you knew how embarrassing it would have been to vomit in front of the crew. 

It was hard to judge how much time had passed by while within your room. The shouting from above had stopped some time ago once the ship had officially been set on course. And since then, you could only hear occasional back-and-forth orders and the sound of boots on wood. 

When living in the Convent, you had passed your time by reading scripture. You’d brought a copy with you, of course, and had tried to read while waiting. But the constant swaying of the ship paired with the tiny font nearly gave you vertigo. 

In the end, you simply lied down and closed your eyes for several hours. Sleeping was impossible; you couldn’t stop thinking about having dinner with Capitán Salazar—a man you hardly knew aside from terrifying rumors. 

A crew member came to fetch you for dinner. When he knocked on your door and you answered, he looked surprised to see you. The surprise dissipated quickly but that didn’t stop him from eyeing you quizzically as he spoke, “Dinner is being served in ten minutes. Please get ready; I’ll escort you once you’re finished.”

“I’m ready now,” you say. You clasp your hands in front of you to keep them from visibly shaking. “I don’t want to keep him waiting.” You smile at him, but he doesn’t return it. He seems distracted. “I want to familiarize myself with the crew. Do you mind telling me who you are?”

His mouth presses into a thin line and his brow knits. The two of you stand stiffly in the doorway, at a sort of stalemate. After a good amount of deliberation, he says, “Officer Magda. Forgive my rudeness. It has been a long time since I have contemplated my faith, sister.” He casts his eyes to the ground in shame. “I am glad that you are here. I only hope that there is a chance of redemption for all of us.”

Officer Magda offers his arm to you and you take it silently, unsure of how to respond. You had warned Mother Superior that you weren’t ready for this mission and that fact was becoming more and more apparent. This was your first time leaving the Convent outside of educational trips to orphanages and schools. You were out of your depth here. 

The officer leads you up the stairs onto the main deck where you take a sharp turn up another short set of steps onto the quarterdeck. The sun has begun to settle on the horizon and the sight of the sea, reflecting the pink and orange sky, is breathtaking. You had seen many a sunrise dip below the ocean on the horizon but, out on the open sea, it was like a glass mirror reflecting the colors for as far as the eye could see. 

You’re so entranced by it that you don’t notice Lieutenant Lesaro at the wheel until he speaks to you, “I hope the voyage has treated you well thus far!” 

You wanted to respond that Officer Magda’s steady arm was the only thing keeping your legs from buckling under the ever-swaying ship. But instead you elect to be a tad more appropriate than that. “It has, thank you. I’ve never sailed before; I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

Surely by this point Lieutenant Lesaro is thinking ‘She’s never sailed? Is she prepared at all for this? Is she at all qualified?’ but if that is the case, he does not convey it. Instead he chuckles to himself and gives Officer Magda a nod, allowing him to continue escorting you. 

You hesitate. “Lt. Lesaro, are you not joining us for dinner?” You had hoped to see a friendly face at the table—one you could find some sort of relief in. 

He looks a little flustered at first, as if this were somehow an embarrassing question. But more than likely he was just not at all expecting it. Lt. Lesaro sort of laughs under his breath before replying, “I’m flattered, but no. The Capitán has given me command of the _Mary_ for tonight so that you may have his undivided attention.” 

This information does very little to calm your nerves. But despite this, you say, “Well, hopefully some other time then.” Lesaro stares, perplexed, as you follow officer Magda to the Capitán’s quarters. 

He knocks on the door and announces your arrival as you hastily smoothen down your robes and adjust the rosary around your neck. You were here to represent the Church and God himself. That was all you knew at this point so you use it like a crutch to carry you into this terrifying situation. When you hear the Capitán answer, “Send her in,” it is divine intervention that gives you the strength to step into the room. 

It is not incredibly well lit. There are several candles burning on an elaborate dining table in the center. Steaming food is piled upon silver dishes, the smell intoxicating and inviting. A bottle of wine is stationed near the middle with the cork already removed. At the farthest wall parallel to the door, there is a large window stained blue which filters in the remaining light of dusk. In front of the window there is a desk and sitting behind it is the Capitán. 

This is the second time you’ve seen him today and the lighting isn’t any better here than it was on the harbor. His face is tilted down as he writes and he does not look up at you when you arrive. You stand by the closed door, unsure whether or not you should take a seat or say something. Ultimately you decide that he must be testing you in some way. So you don’t move an inch and wait for him to initiate the conversation. 

Inevitably he does. After finishing whatever he was writing, he places his quill down and closes the container of ink. He takes another second or so to re-read the last sentence he wrote before nodding to himself and finally, _finally_ looking up at you. 

Sometimes, when one is in the presence of an individual who is damaged—someone who has known suffering and known it well—it can be difficult to behave accordingly. You could see him clearer now and while, yes, he was indeed very good looking, there was something sinister dwelling just beneath the surface. He did not offer you a smile or a curtesy of any sort; he was evaluating you. On the dock it had been different. He’d only been staring at you for a split second and there had been others nearby. But now? In this room—which only moments ago seemed so much wider—where it was just the two of you? You couldn’t look away, either. He simultaneously made you want to run away and stand your ground. You were trying to decide which one was more favorable when he picked up his cane and started making his way around the desk. 

“I don’t want you here,” he said, simply. “I find it insulting.”

This was . . . unexpected. You open your mouth to ask him if he has forgotten his manners when he holds a finger up, shushing you. He is an officer of the Spanish navy—a Capitán—and you are one of the lowest ranking members of the Catholic Church. So you must obey. 

Capitán Salazar continues moving toward the chair at the head of the dinner table. He moves off-kilter, hobbling with the cane. You can tell that his left leg was broken not too long ago. Even so, he appears well-adjusted. 

He pulls his seat out and sits down. Etiquette dictates that he should have pulled your chair out first but it is relatively clear now that he has no respect for you. So you do it yourself, scraping it across the floor loudly in irritated defiance before sitting. 

There is another stretch of silence where the two of you stare at one another. It must be his way of intimidation. It was certainly working, but you held your chin high. You were a member of the Church, no matter how small, and you would not be pushed over so easily! If you were going to endure a three-year voyage with this man, you would need to set the boundaries right here and right now. 

The Capitán is keen and sees that you have found your willpower. A smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Tell me, little mouse. What is your name?”

You weren’t sure whether you should be insulted by the nickname or bewildered that the Church didn’t tell the Capitán your name at any point during the arrangement. One insult at a time, though. 

You tell him who you are, watching him as the information goes in one ear and out the other. He didn’t care to know you, obviously, because he immediately says, “Lieutenant Lesaro has informed me that your superiors told you nothing about your business with us. Is that true, little mouse?” 

He pours himself a glass of wine—likely not his first of the evening—and then extends the bottle in your direction, offering you some. His eyes are unyieldingly critical despite his otherwise calm and amused face. 

You frown at him. “Unless that is sacramental wine then I cannot accept it.” The bite of sarcasm on your tongue was a little too obvious. The last thing you wanted to do was anger this man. So it is with great relief that he chuckles at your words. 

“Is it against your faith?” He raises an eyebrow at you. The arrogant smirk has yet to leave his face.

“That’s not it at all,” you reply stiffly. “There is no rule that those of the faith cannot drink. But I am not foolish enough to become inebriated on a ship full of strangers while on a missionary endeavor.”

Capitán Salazar appears a little taken aback at this remark and you are proud that you’ve managed to outwit him. But your victory is short lived—he begins to laugh.   
The sound of it is deep and warm. Had it not been coming from such a detestable man, it may have made you smile. But at this moment, it fuels your rising temper. 

“Good. I’m glad you’re taking your ‘mission’ seriously. It is a good thing to have personal principles, no? Certain ethics that you believe in and would die by.” He swirls the wine around, gazing at the red stain it leaves on the glass. His expression has finally changed, but not for the better. The solemn look from earlier that day has returned. He’s not in this room with you—he’s in a memory. And it is not a pleasant one. “I will tell you why you are here. But first, I want you to know that it does not matter. I will not let you or the Church or even the King get in my way this time. Do you understand that?”

“I . . .” You were a bit lost at this point. Despite that, you are eager to hear what he had to say. So you finally reply, “Yes, I understand.” 

The Capitán nods absent-mindedly, still staring down at the contents of his cup. When he sets it down onto the dinner table, he says, “What do you know of my crew? Of our story?”

Should you admit to him the ridiculous rumors you’d heard over the last week? Would it insult him? At this point, insulting him seemed appealing. So you say, “The sisters from my Convent had heard claims that you and your crew were killed at sea many years ago and returned as specters. But you don’t look like ghosts to me, so it must not be entirely accurate.”

He crosses a leg over the other and reclines back into the plush chair, tilting his head up so that he can look down upon you. You narrow your eyes at him. 

“Would it contradict your faith to believe otherwise?” the Capitán asks in a rhetorical way. “Would it frighten you if I told you it was true?”

“Frighten me?” you echo, feeling confused more than anything else. “Are you _trying_ to frighten me?”

He chuckles softly, closing his eyes. Without his gaze on you, the tension in the room seems to dissipate. “No, little mouse. I’m only trying to explain to you why you are here. You see, it is true. My men and I sailed into the Devil’s Triangle over twenty years ago and we did, indeed, parish. But we were not dead for long; the triangle cursed us, brought us back incomplete. And we lived as memories of ourselves for years and years.” 

This fabrication is ridiculous—blasphemous almost. And it should have made you scoff at how absurd it all sounded. 

But the way he told it . . . the sound in his voice. Such sorrow. It was potent enough to send a chill down your spine. 

“If that were true, then why do you all appear human?” you whisper. You look him over again, studying the rich brown of his skin and the healthy flush of blood just beneath. He looked like a perfectly healthy man, perhaps even better than most. “Forgive me, it’s all rather hard to believe.”

For the first time this evening, his eyes soften and he gives you an understanding look. “There no need to ask for forgiveness, mouse. I don’t expect you to believe something you have no proof of. But it is true. Our curse was broken only a month ago. That is a story, perhaps, for another day. Soon after, word reached the new King and we were asked to return to Spain.” His lips curl in a snarl for a split second. “A waste of time. Precious time. He wanted to speak with us—considered us a great relic of the past—and inquired about the curse. I saw no reason to lie. I had not betrayed my country.” 

His hand upon the table tightens into a fist as his voice begins to grow louder. You press your lips into a fine line and wait for him to calm himself. 

“. . . but he told us that the Church believed we were condemned by God. Unfit to represent Spain and continue with our righteous mission. He gave us an ultimatum. We could resume our purge of the seas as long as a representative of the faith sailed with us—keeping a watchful eye for black magic. Which, of course, is you.”

There were several questions you wanted to start with, and perhaps even more that you weren’t sure if you wanted an answer to. You decide to ask, “What do you mean ‘purge of the seas’?”

Salazar looks surprised to hear this. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again to say, “It is a holy mission, sister. I assure you. What is your opinion of pirates?”

For a moment, you thought you saw the candles flicker at the word ‘pirate’, like a cold breeze swept through the room. But no such chill was felt on your skin. “I’ve never met a pirate.” You admit. “But their way of life is sinful. I cannot say that I would like to meet one anytime soon.”

Another type of smile stretches across his face. He is pleased at your response. “Good. I expected as much. I want to purify the world of their influence, little mouse. But I won’t be able to if you and I aren’t working together. Do you understand?”

“You mean to say that you’re going to be . . . killing pirates . . . while I’m aboard this ship?” you feel a lump form in your throat. You’d never seen a man die in front of you before, let alone dozens upon dozens. 

He waves a hand at you dismissively. “You won’t be in any danger, sister. The _Silent Mary_ is the greatest military ship the ocean has ever known. You won’t even have to see a drop of blood if you stay in your room.”

You are quiet, trying to come to terms with all of this. He observes you while you think and eventually adds, “I need you to know something. Will you listen? The Church chose you because you are a novitiate. You have not completed your vows, no?”

You shake your head quietly. He nods. 

“There is no evidence of the curse anymore. They sent you because you can be more easily corrupted than a nun who has taken her vows, you see? It is a test. If you lose your faith by the end of this voyage, if you leave the order, if you engage in sin, then we will have failed. And my mission—your mission—will be over.” The room falls silent as he finishes speaking. He’s staring you down again, refusing to let you look at anything else but him. You feel the loud beating of your heart and pray that he does not hear it from across the table. “So all you have to do, little mouse, is exist. We will treat you well and all of this will be over and done with in three years. Then, you can take your vows and go home. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

So that was it, was it? You and your faith were expendable to the Church? To the king? You feel your hands trembling with anger and despair. But you would not fall apart here, not in front of Capitán Salazar who was already watching you closely for signs of weakness. You swallow to alleviate the burning sensation at the back of your throat. 

“It sounds better than the alternative,” you say at last. 

The Capitán claps his hands together. “Fantastic. Now that all of that is out of the way, let us eat.”

He fixes himself a plate. Your appetite is gone.


	3. Singing Shanties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have time to proof read this for grammatical errors (also I'm lazy). So please excuse them!

The first week aboard the Silent Mary proved to be as challenging as you had imagined it to be. Officer Magda—who was allegedly very reserved and moody around his crew mates—came to your quarters multiple times a day to pray or to ask for forgiveness for various things. You had initially tried to explain that it was not in your power to grant forgiveness. But he seemed content just by being able to voice his transgressions and did so . . . often. So often, in fact, that you had taken up the pastime of having frequent visits with Lt. Lesaro. Officer Magda never conversed with you in front of other crew members so this proved to be very effective. Lt. Lesaro was an excellent conversationalist, too. 

He was typically found doing all of the work that the Capitán didn’t feel inclined to do. Such as standing at the wheel and giving regular orders to the crew and . . . nearly everything else. In fact, Capitán Salazar was rarely seen on deck. You had asked Lesaro about this peculiarity, wondering if it was common for a ship’s Capitán to be so absent. Usually, Lesaro was delighted to talk to you and answer your questions. But on this occasion, he fell silent and only offered you a simple, “Guilt catches up to you . . . unless you hide from it.” 

Most members of the crew were hard to identify; many of them made no effort to know you. That could not be said for Officers Moss and Santos. Officer Moss was a bit older than Officer Santos though that was almost impossible to tell by the way he acted. He was very . . . “energetic” was not the right word . . . “enthusiastic.” Indeed, yes, he was very enthusiastic. During the day, when going about his duties, he was normal enough. But when his shift ended? When he went below deck to eat and sleep? You could hear him singing shanties, leading the rest of the crew in merriment. He had introduced himself to you the second day of the voyage—taking off his cap to bow and kiss your hand. It was all very theatrical and you believed he was showing off. A lot of men liked to do that around you and other nuns; kiss your hand, wink flirtatiously, talk sweetly to you. You’d been taught to ignore it. But Officer Moss didn’t seem to have any inappropriate ulterior motives. He wasn’t doing it in hopes of wooing you, he was doing it just for the fun of it. 

Officer Santos, on the other hand, seemed like a fairly normal young man. He accompanied Officer Moss nearly everywhere as both men were in charge of manning and attending to the cannons. Unlike his friend, Santos preferred to stay out of the spotlight. When he introduced himself to you, he was asked how he should refer to you— “As ‘sister’? Or by your name?” He balanced out Officer Moss’s energy just be remaining in proximity, going so far as to chastise the older officer occasionally. You found that odd and wondered if Officer Moss resented it at all but, evidently, it was a non-issue. It was usually Santos who would notice you come up on deck and whistle to the rest of the crew to watch their language or their behavior. So, naturally, you came to him with your question. 

“Why does the Capitán stay in his quarters so much?”

Officer Santos had shushed you, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was nearby. He’d pulled you aside and said, “It would anger the Capitán to hear you questioning him like that. You need to be careful.” 

“If he’s so fearsome, why is he hiding in his room?” You retort, a little fed up with this game of cat and mouse. Santos nearly puts a hand over your mouth, looking increasingly more and more uncomfortable. At last, when he realizes you aren’t going to let this go, he relents. 

“Capitán Salazar . . . we think he is ashamed of what he’s done.”

You’re puzzled. “Ashamed of what, killing pirates? I thought that was his ‘holy mission’?”

“It _is_ a holy mission,” Santos snaps. You take a step back from him and he _instantly_ seems embarrassed by his harsh tone. The young officer puts a hand to his face, rubbing at his eyes. In a much softer voice he says, “He isn’t ashamed of the killing . . . just of what it cost us all.”

At that moment, Lt. Lesaro began to call for the officers to gather and Santos gave you one last warning, “Do not pursue this information; it needn’t concern you.” He gives you a lop-sided smile—strained—and departs with a final, “Ok?”

So, by the end of the week, you have more questions than answers. 

You had spent the better part of the week holing up in your room. It didn’t take long for you to realize that this wouldn’t last for three years and decide to put on your veil and head up on deck. The men there greeted you with polite nods and the occasional “good morning” as you searched the deck for Lt. Lesaro. He was usually at the wheel up on the quarterdeck, so you trot up the weathered wooden stairs. 

The wind is blowing hard today; you have to hold onto your veil to keep it from flying off and your skirts seem to tangle around your ankles. You’re so focused on not tripping up the steps that, when you do look up from the floor and notice Capitán Salazar standing at the helm, you nearly yelp out loud. 

“Looking for someone?” He asks you dryly. His eyes are on the sea in front of him and he does not grace you with a glance. “You shouldn’t be up here unless you are told so.”

Officers Magda and Moss are up on the quarterdeck as well and are unfortunate bystanders. Magda pointedly picks non-existent dust flecks off of his jacket whereas Moss stares right at you with wide eyes as if to say ‘what are you _doing_?’ 

“I was never told of that rule,” you say calmly, folding your hands in front of you.

“Do you have to be told every little thing?” His dark eyes slide over to you, applying a suffocating pressure. “Well?”

Your face grows hot. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be heading back to my quarters—,”

You turn to leave but stop when you hear amused chuckling from the Capitán. Glancing over your shoulder, you see a twisted grin on his handsome face. “I am joking with you; it is almost too easy. You can’t stay in your cabin the entire voyage, can you?”

Without thinking, you retort, “Oh? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”

Magda looks as though he is seriously contemplating jumping over the railing. Moss’s jaw drops and he just stands there, glancing rapidly between Salazar and you. The Capitán’s face appears relaxed but every muscle in his body grows tense. You can see his jaw clench. His hands on the wheel tighten to the point where his knuckles turn pale. 

“Officer Magda,” he says in a chillingly calm voice. 

“Sir?” 

“Take the helm.”

He escorts you into his cabin silently, guiding you with the tilt of his chin in that general direction. You felt like a prisoner on your way to the gallows—a lump was lodged in your throat, you moved like someone was puppeteering you. 

_Why did you say that?_ The sisters had taught you to be silent and reserved at all times. To speak out in anger or to allow oneself to fall victim to pride was considered shameful. What would Mother Superior have said? You had always had a temper; the convent had taken it out of you for the most part. Maybe it was because this was your first time in the outside world since joining the order? You would prefer Mother Superior’s punishments to whatever Salazar had planned. 

The cabin door closes behind you and for a moment you are alone in the dark with the Capitán. You can hear him—feel him—hover behind you. A chill runs up your spine and you fight the urge to reach out and see just how close he really was. He moves, given away by the jingling of his medals, and in an instant he has crossed the length of the room and pulled back the curtains. 

“Some nuns take vows of silence, do they not?” He asks, placing both palms on the desk so that he can lean toward you threateningly. “Is it too late for you to start?”

Again, you feel anger begin to bubble in your chest. But instead of raising your voice, you try to reason with him. “You were being rude, Capitán. You cannot expect me to—,”

He shakes a finger at you, a cruel smile on his face. He’s chuckling again and it is slowly becoming a sound you dread. “Will you tell me something? I’m curious.”

What choice did you have, really?

“I will if I can.”

“Where is your family from?”

You hesitate for a moment, surprised. “ . . . I’m sorry?”

“Your family,” he reiterates, “Where are they from . . . ? Was your mother a nun? Your grandmother? What does your father do for a living?”

He’s skirting around an underlying question. And though it remains unspoken, you know exactly what he’s getting at. 

_‘Do you come from a wealthy family or do you come from dirt?’_

It is a sensitive topic for you—so much so that you clam up and look down at the floor as he leaves the desk and starts coming toward you. “How did you find yourself in the order? Was it a personal choice or, say, a necessity? Hm?”

Your face is hot with embarrassment. He comes to stand in front of you, towering over you with his hands clasped behind his back. The jingling sound of his medals tapers off as he comes to a stop. He leans down, face inches away, and says, “What’s wrong, little mouse?”

You shoot him a glare, tears brimming in your eyes despite how hard you’re trying to keep them at bay. “You’ve made your point, Capitán. I apologize for my behavior. May I please be exc—,” 

When his hand comes up to clamp down on your cheeks, forcing you to look at him, a fearful gasp escapes you. You had never heard a sound like that leave your own lips. The tears slipped down your cheeks and onto his rough hands. “No, _no_. You will give me an answer.” His eyes are cruel. Crazed. You could have sworn they were always a dark brown but now, so close, you could see flecks of gold.

You’ve never seen such an unchecked temper, never felt fear like this. He had made it clear to you before that he was capable of killing but that truth hadn’t become real until now.

“Please,” you struggle to whimper, “Capitán Salazar, please. Have mercy.”

All at once, Salazar visibly snaps out of a trance. His grip on your face slackens then disappears altogether. He takes a step back and you let out a shaky breath, fingers coming up to rub at the soreness left behind by his touch. There is silence. 

You look up at him and see that he’s rubbing at his temples, looking dazed. You take this moment of vulnerability to turn heel and flee from the cabin, ignoring his plea for you to wait. 

You fling open the door and run across the quarterdeck. Though it’s difficult, you keep your eyes trained on anything other than the faces of the crew. Officer Moss calls after you and even follows you halfway, stopping only when Magda orders him to. 

At the last set of steps leading to your room, you crash into the Lieutenant who looks, at first, annoyed. 

“Watch where you’re—oh. I was just looking for you—,” You don’t wait for him to finish his sentence, throwing your face into his embroidered uniform, balling your fists in the flaps of the open lapel, sobbing hard and breathlessly. 

Lesaro’s mind buzzes for a moment as he registers what is happening—and what likely has caused it to happen. Ultimately, he puts the pieces together. You feel him sigh, feel his hand come up to the back of your head and the other rest lightly between your shoulder blades. He gives you a couple of calming pats and lets you get it out of your system. 

“I want to go home, Lesaro,” you admit. It is the first time you have voiced this into existence. It was true. 

“It will get easier,” he says, trying to sound cheerful. “The Capitán, he is struggling more than any of us. I cannot ask you to forgive him; I can only ask that you do not hold his behavior against him. He was once a very good man.”

\--

All of the Officers took turns checking in on you throughout the day. Some of the crew who had not shown interest in you had also stopped by to give you various things—food mostly. Apples and slices of bread that they had been saving for themselves. Even Officer Magda came by and presented you with a verse of scripture that he had taken the time to look up and recite. He botched it a bit, but you would never have told him that. 

It was touching, really. Mother Superior had always warned that men wanted to act on bodily instincts and to be wary of little tokens and gifts. But that didn’t seem to be the case here. Except, maybe, with Officer Moss. But it was nearly impossible to tell the difference with him. 

Dinner came along and you considered going under the deck to eat with the men. You had been taking your meals in your room every night despite multiple invites from the crew. They seemed to have a very good understanding of what solitary confinement could do to a person and were desperately trying to make you socialize. 

The food wasn’t good. Maybe sharing it with others would make it bearable.

You carry your lantern with one hand and your plate and silverware in another. You would need to be careful; the last thing you wanted was to be spotted by Salazar. 

Luckily, when you peak your head over the edge of the quarterdeck, you find yourself looking up at Santos. 

“Oh, hello,” he says while peering down at you quizzically. “We were all wondering when you’d come out of there.”

“Is the Capitán eating with his men?” you ask meekly, holding the lantern up so you can see his face. 

Santos smirks. “No, he never eats with the crew. Besides, he’s not come out of his cabin all day either. You’ve both been moping for hours. We placed bets to see which one of you would relent first. Lesaro owes me money now.”

Oh, that’s just wonderful. 

You bid him goodnight and carefully maneuver your way toward the stairs leading to the lower deck. Already, you can hear the sounds of men joking and laughing. 

Warm, yellow light seeps between the iron hatch, allowing you to set the lantern aside. As you lift the hatch up—heavier than you expected it to be—the sounds of merriment settle down and everyone grows deadly quiet. 

You hesitate at first. But after a bit of hunger causes your stomach to growl, you decide to set foot on the ladder. 

At the sight of your slipper-clad feet, a sigh of relief can be heard. Though your back is turned, you know Officer Moss is the one who says, “What did I tell you? No one is as stubborn as the Capitán!”

By the time you reach the bottom, all the laughter and joking has resumed. You look around at the lower deck, shocked at how full it is. When all these men were scattered about the _Mary_ , it was hard to really understand how many of them there were. But the lower deck was crowded—men sat on barrels and swung from hammocks and some even sat on the floor to eat. Some of them were playing cards in a corner while others had already gone to bed despite the noise. Moss was collecting his payment.

“I’m glad to see you out of bed,” you turn to see Lesaro sitting by the ladder, looking a little solemn about losing his money. “Though I wish you could have waited just a little longer.”

A smile cracks across your face. “I’m confused. Were for me or against me? In other words, should I be upset with you?”

He laughs a bit. Lesaro, like most of the men, has taken off his heavy coat and is sitting in a puffy black undershirts. He looks far more comfortable this way. “It’s my fault, really. I should have told you about the bet. We could have worked together.”

You fix yourself a plate of . . . soup? It was too thick to be soup. A sludge, maybe. It smelled good no matter how peculiar its consistency was. And after taking a bite, you could conclude that it didn’t taste any better than most of the meals did. But it was much nicer eating it with other people. 

“So, sister,” says Officer Magda in a lowered voice. It was hard to hear him over the sound of others talking. “Did Capitán Salazar reprimand you for speaking out as you did?”

The anxiety begins to creep back into your chest. “Uh, yes. He did.” You dip your spoon down into the food only to stir around the contents aimlessly. 

“Good, good,” Magda nods, a pleased smile on his face. “The Capitán is a righteous man. He knows what is best; perhaps it was a good thing that he—,”

Magda’s words are cut off as Officer Moss stands up boldly, a grin on his face. “Magda, why don’t you lead us in a song?” 

The rest of the men guffaw and egg him on. Magda squirms at first, looking more annoyed than anything. This does nothing but fuel the fire in Moss. Eventually, Magda politely declines. “I’m sure it would be inappropriate to sing in front of the sister.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” you say with the sweetest of smiles on your face. “Are you a gifted singer, Officer Magda?”

 _This_ sends him squirming. “Oh, I don’t—I’m not—er, perhaps I can sing a hymn?”

“She probably hears hymns all the time!” Lesaro chimes in. You’re delighted to see him join in on the revelry even if its at poor Magda’s expense. “Plus, if you sing a hymn wrong, she’ll spot the different right away. If you sing something she’s never heard of . . .”

“Exactly!” echoes Moss and many other men. The entire lower deck is craning in at this point with shit-eating grins as Magda comes to accept his fate. He squares his shoulders and holds his chin high to negate how red his face is. Sweat beads on his brow as his gaze flickers about the room nervously. 

“Oh, alright then.” He relents. Everyone quiets down instantly as Magda coughs into his hand, clearing his throat. You hate to admit it, but you’re on the edge of your seat. He opens his mouth, then closes it, hums a tune to get the pitch, then—

\--lets out this elegant operatic vibrato that nearly floors you. The crew cheer at the top of their lungs as he belts his song, eventually joining in. Moss and a few other men mockingly sing way off tune but can do nothing to sing over Magda’s brilliantly talented singing voice. You’re laughing so hard that tears burn at the corners of your eyes—happy ones. Lesaro does not sing, but he sits and hums and sways with the music. He had been right, after all. It was getting easier. 

\--

In his cabin, Armando sits at his desk, facing the stained window. He’d been pouring over the navigational charts all evening. The _Mary_ was making great time; they’d find their first victims before noon the next day.

He can hear the men singing all the way up in his room. He would let them have their fun tonight; tomorrow would be their first real fight since Poseidon’s Tomb. So he would let them sing and let them laugh—if even just for now. 

He’s so tired. He’s never been this tired. Becoming mortal again had left him feeling a surge of energy and purpose. But once that faded—once he had counted all the men he’d lost at the bottom of the ocean—weariness weighed upon his shoulders. If he closes his eyes, he can still remember being young and singing songs with his mates. That man that he once was is gone now—he died at the triangle and had yet to return. 

Armando sits up in his chair and looks down at his hands. He had always battled against his own rage. But since his death and resurrection, it was always lurking just beneath the surface. 

He hadn’t meant to hurt you. It was as though he blinked once and he was at the helm and then he blinked again and he had you up against a wall. He rubs at his temples. This headache hadn’t gone away for weeks now. He’s losing himself all over again. Slipping. He’d spent years as a specter brought back to life only by his anger and spite. It was proving difficult to pick back up where he had left off. 

At least the crew had an easier time with it. 

He stands from his chair and grabs his cane. His leg ached if he stood on it for too long. He feared it wouldn’t heal right. 

Santos salutes to the Capitán, saying, “We’re still on course, Capitán.” 

“Good, good,” Salazar mumbles. The night air feels nice. “At ease. You’re dismissed.” 

Santos salutes again before he departs down the stairs of the quarterdeck. Armando takes the helm into his hands as he has thousands of times before and listens to his men sing songs into the night.


	4. At Dawn

The ship lurches and you go sprawling onto the cabin floor, landing harshly on your side. The pain on impact is not enough to snap you out of the daze of sleep and you lie there, blinking in confusion, until another collision causes the _Silent Mary_ to rock violently. 

A million thoughts are flooding your mind as you try to stand up, only to be thrown back to the floor as cannon fire rings out. As you begin to focus, you can hear the crew shouting and running around up above. The best you can do is crawl on your hands and knees toward the door, grabbing hold of the handle to pull yourself up. Someone had locked you in. 

Perhaps that was for the best. Clearly the _Silent Mary_ was in the middle of combat and your presence above deck would do nothing to help the crew. Still, just the thought of pirates beyond the wooden exterior set you on edge. You knew you’d eventually see warfare, but not so soon. 

And from the sound of it, the crew is struggling. 

You decide the best and only thing to do was to sit and pray until the battle was over. Shakily, you make your way back to your bunk, reaching under to pull out the heavy suitcase where you’ve stored your scripture and rosary.

You place the bible down on the mattress and sit on your knees, rosary clasped between your hands. You’re not wearing anything but your night gown, meaning that the hard and worn wood floor is rough against your knees. Though it’s uncomfortable, you know the crew is having a much harder time so you close your eyes and try to drown out the sounds of screaming and shouting from above. 

Speaking out loud helps you to focus, and as the noise grows louder and the sound of swords clashing together joins the chorus, you find yourself nearly shouting into your clasped hands. 

You think of what the Capitán promised you last week—that the _Mary_ was the best naval ship in the Caribbean. He seemed so sure of it, so confidant. And you wanted so badly to believe him. But the Mary was nearly twenty-five years old; newer and better ships sailed the ocean now. Would she be able to withstand the test of time? 

A cannonball hits the side of the ship, blasting through the lower deck. You scream, burying your head into the mattress. Please. Please let it be over soon. 

Footsteps trot rapidly down the steps outside. There is an attempt to open the door. You consider calling out to see who it is but ultimately think better of it. However, you cannot help but yelp aloud when someone throws their weight against the door, trying to bust it down. You clutch your rosary to your chest and push yourself under the bunk, pressing your back flat against the wall. The intruder rams the door two more times before the wood splinters and caves in. 

Two men enter the room, their boots and pants legs indicating that they aren’t part of the _Silent Mary’s_ crew. Pirates. 

You hold your breath, covering your mouth with both hands. You watch as they stalk about the small room; one of them throws open the drawers to your dresser while the other one makes a bee-line to the bunk. 

The man by the dresser has time to say, in English, “Do they got a , _nun_ on board?” before his companion reaches under the bed and grabs you by your ankles, dragging you out into the open. 

You scream and kick at him, clawing at the floor boards. His face is scruffy and scarred and when he looks at you, it is with hunger. “Aye, they do! Look at her!” You can’t understand what they’re saying, but this man’s intent is clear enough.

His companion backs up against the dresser, looking panicked. He crosses himself and mumbles, “Put her back! Put her back! We can’t be touchin’ a nun! Pretty sure it’s an eternity in hell for just lookin’ at her outside of her nun-ly robes!” He promptly claps both hands over his eyes. 

The other pirate reaches down and grabs one of your flailing wrists, trying to hold you still. “Don’t be a damned fool! Nuns don’t travel with Spanish Naval vessels so she’s clearly not a real nun. It must be some sort of trick.” 

He goes to cover your mouth with his other hand while also looking over at his partner, trying to persuade him to help. You take this opportunity to bite down hard on his grimy fingers, tasting blood in your mouth. The pirate yelps in pain, stumbling back just enough so that your legs are free to kick him in the chest. He goes sprawling back into the farthest wall and you scramble to your legs. 

His partner makes a weak sound of distress, switching one hand to cover his eyes while the other one extends out, searching the room for you. You easily duck under him and race out the door and up the stairs. 

The deck is in chaos. Smoke clouds fill the air, making it hard to breath and see. You recognize several crew members sword fighting with various pirates and, unfortunately, several more bleeding out on the ground. You don’t have time to process any of it when you hear the two men from your room start to clamber up the steps. 

You make a hard turn up onto the quarterdeck, having to leap over a hole in the stairs. Your nightgown snags on the splintered wood and you fall to the floor. A hand grabs your ankle again and you scream, whirling around to try and fend for your life yet again. You roll onto your back, ready to go down biting and kicking if that's what it took. But someone has beaten you to it; the pirates mouth is agape and a shining silver sword is lodged in his eye socket, piercing the back of his skull. With a sickening, slick sound, the sword is removed and the pirate falls limply onto your stomach. His blood soaks through the sheer white fabric, warm and smelling like iron. 

A scream is stuck in your throat; you push against the corpse, trying to get it off of you, but it’s far too heavy. Luckily, a pair of strong hands slide under your arms and drag you out from beneath him. 

The cannons fire and all you can hear is a high-pitched ringing in your ears. Your savior loops one arm under the bend of your legs and places the other on your back, carrying you. Gun shots are blasting from every direction, so you bury your face in his black and white striped jacket. He smells like blood and fire. 

The Capitán kicks open the door to his cabin and carries you in, setting you down on the dining table. He shakes you by your shoulders, saying something unintelligible. The ringing dies away in your ears and you slowly snap out of shock. 

His face is stern, a trail of blood runs from a slash on his forehead down the length of his face where it steadily drips onto his clothing. His hair, usually smoothened down and tied in a knot at the back of his head, is partially loose on one side. He’s saying your name—not that blasted nickname. 

“Stay here, barricade the door. Find a place to hide. I’ll come back for you when its over.”

He waits until he sees you nod, then he’s gone again before you can even process it. The sound of the door locking behind him sets you into motion. You shove the heavy table against the door and knock over a bookshelf on top of it for good measure. Then you gather your skirt into your fists and race over to his desk, crawling under it and huddling with your knees against your chest. 

\--

It takes nearly another hour before everything gets quiet. The _Silent Mary_ was still afloat, which you took as a good sign. But no matter how calm everything seemed, you stayed put. Just as the Capitán had ordered you. 

It takes another ten minutes of sitting and waiting before someone knocks on the cabin door. Still, you don’t move. Holding your breath, you listen closely. For what felt like an eternity, there was silence. Then the Capitán says, “Little Mouse open the door, will you?”

His voice sounds strained, labored. 

“Give me a moment,” you call back to him; your voice cracks. You climb out from under the desk and approach the book shelf atop the dining table. It’s harder to set it back up than it was to knock it down. And by the time you’ve gotten it out of the way and pulled the table back, you’re definitely winded. 

You open the door just a sliver at first, just enough to see through it. Capitán Salazar glares down at you—looking exhausted and fatigued. You open the door completely and he takes one step into the room before _collapsing_. 

You react quickly, catching him and falling with him to the floor. He’s breathing, but its shallow. You can feel him struggling, trying to get back up onto his feet. 

“D—Don’t move. Try to relax. I’ll go find Lt. Lesaro—,”

His fists tangle in your bloody night gown. You can feel the humid heat of his breath on your neck. He’s not letting you go anywhere. You’ve never been in such physical close proximity with a man before. Your only thoughts are to comfort him since he’s in pain. But you aren’t sure how the terrifying Capitán might react to sympathy. He seems so weak, though, so vulnerable. So you gently run your fingers through his hair, pressing his face into you, while humming one of your favorite hymns in his ear. Almost immediately, he loosens his grip and melts against you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper to him, knowing he probably won’t hear it. “Thank you for saving my life earlier.” 

Boots thunder against wood just outside and within seconds, Officer Magda and Lt. Lesaro are standing in the door frame looking just as worse-for-wear. Lt. Lesaro wastes no time stumbling into the room and helping lift the Capitán off you. You catch a glimpse of Salazar’s face—so, so tired—before Lesaro hauls him over to the dining table. Magda comes over to you, notices the blood soaking your night gown, and asks you rapid-fire questions, “Are you alright? Are you injured? Where are you injured? Are you in pain?”

“I’m fine,” you mumble, realizing just how much the blood has caused your nightgown to stick to your body. You feel naked. “What about the crew? How many did we lose? Is it over?”

Magda shrugs off his officer’s jacket and drapes it around your shoulders. “The crew is fine, for the most part. We lost nearly seven men.”

“Seven?” you echo. You think of how many bodies you’d spotted on the deck of the Mary. There were far more than seven. 

“Give me a hand, will you?” Barks Lesaro. You and Magda turn to see him removing Salazar’s elaborate striped jacket. The Capitán is motionless on the table.  
Magda steps in and together the two officers remove Salazar’s waistcoat and under shirt. You clamber to your feet and quietly move closer to inspect the severity of the wounds. Magda’s jacket is heavy on your shoulders and works as a sort of calming weight to keep you grounded. And you would need to be calm for what you were about to see. 

His stomach and chest are littered with stab wounds—some of them shallower than others. He’d likely been outnumbered at one point or another and had, evidently, been victorious despite his injuries. His breathing is so shallow; you watch his chest move up and down with difficulty. There was so much blood. Lesaro and Magda were pressing table clothes to the wounds to stop the flow but . . . 

“Is he going to die?” you whisper. You already knew the answer.

Lesaro pauses, looking down at the mess, then says something unintelligible to Magda. The Officer turns to you and places a hand on your shoulder, leading you toward the door. “This is no place for you, sister. Why don’t you go tend to the men on deck?” 

You swat his hand away. “It might be my fault if he dies,” you hiss. “He was trying to protect me.” 

“We were _all_ trying to protect you,” Lesaro snaps. “Go help whoever you can.” 

You’d never seen the lieutenant angry. Let alone, angry at you. It made you feel small, ashamed. You nod to him.

“Of . . . of course. Thank you,” you whisper. “I’ll go.” 

\--

The crew wrapped up their dead in spare bed sheets before throwing them into the ocean. 

You hated how relieved you were when you discovered that Santos and Moss were not amongst the dead. When you found them, you expected them to be grieving. But they both looked devoid of any emotion whatsoever. They had been dead before and they become numb to the loss of their comrades. It made you sick to your stomach. 

A crew member you’d pulled aside named Bracero explained to you what all had transpired. 

They’d been pursuing a pirate ship until the King summoned them. The ship allegedly had information that Capitán Salazar required. They’d lost track of it after having to return to Spain, so finding it again had not only taken quite a bit of time, it had also allowed the informant to switch vessels and dodge the _Mary_. 

So it was all for nothing, in the end. 

“What went wrong?” you asked him. Because clearly something had. 

He sighed and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “We’ve not had a proper fight for years. We need to readjust to . . . well, being mortal. Being damned had its perks.” 

Lesaro and Magda had stayed in the Capitán’s quarters until dusk. You’d been busy tending to minor injuries and helping clean up debris. You weren’t in any way qualified for this line of duty, but then again, you weren’t qualified for the job you were here for, either. You’d changed into clean clothes but had been forced to wear a very modest, high collared dress. It was a plain grey color, nothing eye-catching in the slightest. You’d packed it just in case a situation would arise where your habit might get dirty—and scrubbing blood from the deck of the Silent Mary constituted that.

The overall tone of the crew had been eerily somber. So you had led them in a prayer for their fallen comrades once things had reached an appropriate time. Before they had thrown the bodies overboard, you had knelt and prayed next to the corpses as well. Even as you spoke sincerely, the words felt empty coming out of your mouth. You weren’t a real nun, so did they even count? You were determined to try anyway. 

The officers swarmed the quarterdeck, circling like vultures. They spoke in hushed tones and occasionally would dip their head into the cabin. You were leaning against the starboard side railing when Lesaro stepped outside, looking tremendously exhausted, followed shortly by Magda. You couldn’t hear what he was saying over the steady slap of waves against the ship. But the officers seemed to share a round of relieved sighs. You were admittedly confused; you’d been waiting to hear that the Capitán had succumbed to his wounds. 

It wasn’t your place to go ask them the question weighing on you. And your last interaction with Lesaro had left you wary of your place on the ship. But you also couldn’t return to your room either. So you just stood there, wringing your hands together, waiting for one of them to notice and speak to you. 

But that wasn’t necessary. Because as you were watching them speak, the door to the cabin opened and the Capitán himself stepped out onto the quarterdeck, greeted by a round of salutes from his officers. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You just stare at him—at the color in his face and the missing wound from his forehead.  
As you’re looking up at him like a fool, he is the first of his men to finally take notice of you. Then they all look down at you. The eye contact, even from such a distance, is smothering. Ultimately, you duck your head and retreat to your cabin. 

He shouldn’t be alive. You saw those wounds. He should be dead and yet. . . 

The curse was gone, but traces of it still remained. 

\--

Salazar watches you disappear under the deck, unblinking. His officers surround him in silence, waiting for him to say what they were all thinking. He waits as the sounds of your footsteps fade away. 

“She knows,” he says. “She knows about the curse.”

“She doesn’t have any proof,” says Lesaro, perhaps a little too quickly. Salazar’s gaze slides over to his lieutenant. “Even if she told the King, she would have to support her argument. And she cannot.”

“Yes,” Moss chimes in. “It is important to remember that the Church is not relying on a statement from her. It’s a test of her faith. And she’s not going to abandon the order over something like this.”

“If anything, she might double down on her faith after this.” Magda adds. 

“That’s right,” Lesaro lets a smile slip, proud of his fellow officers. “See, there is nothing to—,”

“You all like her, eh?” Salazar asks coldly. The men around him hold their breaths, exchanging looks. This does not go unnoticed by the Capitán. He nods, contemplating. “Hm. I see. Have you forgotten what we’re fighting for? Our sacred duty to kill each and ever pirate on the sea? You’re all getting too close to her; do not forget that our mission lies in her hands. The hands of a novice! Of a low ranking church official! She could destroy thirty years of hard work with the snap of her fingers and there would be—,” here his rage boils and his grip on his cane tightens to the point where its shaking. He lifts it up and slams it down onto the deck. “— _nothing_ I could do about it. I cannot lay a hand on her.”

Lesaro’s face goes ashen. He looks around the circle and is alarmed to see the other men remaining quiet. He repeats the same advice he’s said in his head over and over for years. _It is pointless to argue with the Capitán. Just let it go. Let it go._

But he finds it harder to hear this time. 

“I enjoy her being here. And yes, I do like her. I think she was sent to us for a reason. And I think, more specifically, she was sent to _you_ for a reason, Capitán.”

Salazar slowly turns his head in the lieutenant’s direction. The officers watch with bated breath. Lesaro stands tall. He continues, “I am not the only one who has noticed the inner turmoil you have been enduring. You protected and saved a civilian today, sir. You’ve not done that in years.” 

Lesaro does not flinch as Salazar begins to stalk toward him, taking steady and sluggish steps. When Salazar stands a mere few inches away from his face, the lieutenant feels a small sting of fear. He maintains eye contact for as long as he can before, ultimately, backing down and casting his gaze to the floor. 

“You’ve never been so bold before, Guillermo.” Salazar leans back. “I don’t tolerate insubordination, you know that.” Lesaro is grateful that he cannot see the expressions of Magda, Moss, and Santos; he could not handle their fear and his own all at once. But Armando’s face lacks anger. If anything, he looks as though he might actually be . . . reflecting upon Lesaro’s words. And indeed, he was. 

The Capitán turns and walks towards the helm, placing a rough hand on the wheel. He looks out at the sea while he thinks, giving his officers enough time to calm their tattered nerves. After a long while, he says, “Perhaps you’re right, Lieutenant. Perhaps I’m going about this all wrong. Maybe the tactic here is not to scare her into compliance.” 

The other officers are overcome with relief. Lesaro is more suspicious than ever. Salazar cracks an amused smile and looks at his lieutenant from over his shoulder. 

“They destroyed the door to her quarters, eh? That won’t do; not for a woman of the faith. No privacy! No modesty! Nothing but the best for our little mouse, right? Officer Moss!”

“Yes, sir?” 

“Go tell the nun to pack her things. She’ll be sleeping in my quarters tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was left deliberately vague, but the reason the SM crew struggled during this fight was that it was their first battle as mortals meaning they had to completely re-remember their old fighting style. The Mary doesn't just rise up and crush ships anymore, which was at least 86% of their tactic for 25 years. So. It was rough.


	5. Comfortable

What would Mother Superior do in this sort of situation?

Well, first of all, she never would have stepped foot into a man’s personal cabin in the first place. Which is something you have now done . . . three times. She also wouldn’t have had dinner with the crew or let anyone see her in a sheer and bloodied night gown. And she wouldn’t have talked back to Capitán Salazar or embraced Lt. Lesaro. If she could see you now, standing in a simple gray dress instead of your habit, in the middle of Capitán Salazar’s cabin—she might have fainted. 

You are alone at the moment. Officer Moss had fetched you from your room and asked you to bring your things. Everything you owned fit inside one measly suitcase so that took no time at all. You’d asked Moss what was going on and he had struggled—at great length—to tell you that you’d be sleeping in the Capitán’s quarters that night. 

“I can’t,” you had murmured, your face a decent shade of red. “W-where will he sleep?”

Moss looked mortified. Under any other circumstance, it would have been entertaining to see such a expression on his usually playful face. 

He had carried your things for you up the stairs and into the cabin. But from that point, he had no other choice than to bid you goodnight and retreat. Salazar was no where to be seen, but that didn’t calm your nerves in the slightest. As you examined the dining table, scuffed from that morning and decently stained by blood despite the scrubbing, a knock came from the door. 

It felt odd to invite someone into a room that wasn’t yours. But you also couldn’t ignore it. So you answered by opening the door enough to see who it was. It was a lower ranking crew member, one you didn’t recognize. He was carrying two buckets of steaming water. “I was given orders to bring you these,” he said, “I’ll have to make several trips, but we’ve boiled enough to fill the tub.”

“The tub?” you squeak. He brushes past you into the room. On the left and right sides of the cabin, there are thick black curtains draped against the walls. Or so you thought. The sailor sets down the buckets and pulls one of the curtains aside, revealing that the room is in fact larger than it appears. You could see the white edge of a claw-footed bathtub just behind the young lad. 

You mutter under your breath, “He has all this room and I got a closet?”

The sailor, true to his estimates, made four trips from below deck to the captain’s quarters. The steam from the tub had made the room several degrees warmer and you uncomfortably tugged at the collar of your gray dress. Perhaps you would have time to change into your habit, since the captain was no where to be seen.

When the young lad has finished and excuses himself, you are alone once again. Salazar must be below deck; you hadn’t spotted him when Moss was escorting you. And even if you hadn’t seen him, you would have felt his gaze on you from any angle. But you don’t feel it presently, so it would seem that he is showing you a grand display of hospitality after your mortifying day. It was unlike him, yes. Not only to be so cordial but to also sleep below deck with lower ranking officers. 

You light an oil lantern beside the tub, eager to take a proper bath. If Salazar wanted to be a little nicer to you, than that was all well and good. You weren’t going to be the one to stop him. Your baths in the last week had consisted of standing naked in your room, running a cold saltwater cloth over your protesting skin. Your hair had become so dense with salt that keeping it in a tight bun under your veil was the only option. 

You tug the curtain closed and reach behind your back to undo the bindings of your dress. By the time all your clothes are a heap upon the floor, you’re giddy with excitement to step into the water. You test the temperature, find it to be perfect, and slip down into the warmth. Every muscle in your body relaxes. You hold back a sigh of pleasure. 

After five or so minutes of sitting and just enjoying the sensation, you sit up and begin scrubbing your hair free of salt and grime. In the dim light, you can see bruises on your arms and legs from being dragged and knocked down earlier. They were already a light purple gray. 

This was only the first week. Would you even survive for three years?

You recline back against the wall of the tub, staring up at the wooden ceiling. It hadn’t been too bad so far. The crew were lovely, for the most part. And sailing was monotonous but not unbearable after you got your sea legs. Maybe the _Mary_ would make port soon in an exotic, new land? You truthfully had no idea where you were in relation to Spain at this point. But surely Salazar would be forced to stop for more supplies. Then, maybe, you could explore a new land? 

It was exciting to fantasize, but in reality, you knew it would be more proper of you to stay on the ship as much as possible. Exploration was dangerous—a fact you knew Salazar would agree with. Straying outside of the convent with a chaperone and a flock of other nuns was fine. But that wasn’t an option for you here. You wouldn’t necessarily need constant supervision, per say. You knew your own strength and resolve. But Salazar certainly wouldn’t take the risk of you finding some strapping young vagabond and abandoning your—his—mission. 

You smile to yourself. In a way, you did admire him. He was nothing but rude to you, but he had his ambitions. And what were you except a complication? His frustration was warranted; you only hoped it wouldn’t last more than another week. Not many men upheld their convictions as strongly and vehemently as Salazar, not many that you had ever known. His crew believed in him—despite everything, they still believed. And that had to speak volumes for the kind of man he once was. 

And hopefully still is. 

The water has started to cool. You blink your weary eyes, reluctant to get out of the water. As you lean your head against the side of the tub, something catches your eye. 

Draped over a chair against the farthest wall is . . . something silky. You stare at it hauntingly for a moment, perfectly still. It was an olive green with lace frills at the edges. It wasn’t brand new, by the looks of it, but it certainly was new to you. After a long stand off with the garment, you finally rise from the tub and step over toward it, eyeing it precariously. Why was it here? In the Capitán’s quarters? 

Blood rushes to your cheeks and you have to close your eyes hard to expel the dirty thoughts running through your mind. It doesn’t work. 

Maybe he had pleasurable company while they were in Barcelona? It was possible, you supposed. Salazar didn’t seem . . . like he could possibly relax enough for that. But, then again, he’d been dead for two decades—anyone would have . . . desires. 

Your instinct says to walk away from it but your curiosity is far stronger. Picking it up between two pinched fingers, you examine it closer. It’s just a bathing robe, by the looks of it. A very, very fancy and suggestive robe but a robe nonetheless. It’s soft, too. Much softer than the dense cotton of your other clothes. Never had you ever been able to afford something so extravagant. Temptation stirs in your stomach. 

\--

Salazar glances down at his pocket watch. It had been an hour since you’d gone into his cabin. That was ample time for you to take your bath and get dressed, he figured. Unless you had fallen asleep in there and drowned. 

He smirks to himself proudly. Planting the garment had been a stroke of genius on his part. Typically, he destroyed pirate ships, sinking their treasures to the depths. But he wanted to be thorough in his search for the informant, so he’d boarded the vessel himself. When searching below deck, he had found all manner of stolen goods and trinkets—so many that it made him physically ill with anger. But just as he was deciding to torch the vessel, he spotted it. At the time he had no particular purpose for it. But Salazar was a man who liked to plan ahead. 

Not too far ahead—it found its purpose that very night. 

He’s quite smug about the whole thing. If you were sent here to test him, he should in turn be allowed to test you. 

That first day the two of you had met, he had realized your conviction to your mission was real. But he had also seen that you were capable of succumbing to temptations. You must have grown up in poverty—that much was obvious. So there would always be a desire for the frivolous things in life. He would use this as a weapon against you. 

Salazar checks his pocket watch one last time before deciding there was no need to keep waiting. He waltzes over to the cabin door, carefully placing each boot so as to not make a sound. In front of the wooden entrance, he pauses before knocking. 

He listens closely for the sounds he expects to hear--panicked scrambling as you rush to remove the sinful robe and change into your habit—but frowns when he hears nothing. He goes so far as to press an ear to the door. Naturally, he is startled when you open the door to greet him, wearing your habit and professional robes. 

You blink at him in confusion. He reels back, trying to play it off like he wasn’t eavesdropping. But the damage is already done. The only thing concealing his embarrassment is his frustration. He clears his throat. You smile up at him sweetly. 

“May I come in sister? I forgot to finish some paperwork at my desk,” he lies through his teeth. He hated liars but this? This was just to save face. 

“Of course,” you say, stepping aside to let him pass. Salazar enters his room with purpose, teeth clenched. He hated being wrong. 

To keep up appearances, he goes to his desk and pulls out an older document that he could pretend to scribble on while you watched. In the silence you say, “I want to thank you for letting me sleep here tonight. It is very kind of you. Though I hope you don’t expect me to take advantage of your generosity. In the morning, we can nail a sheet to my cabin door and it’ll do just fine.”

He presses the pen into the paper with such force that the ink bubbles and blots. Maybe he had nothing to worry about, after all. Maybe Lesaro had been right. 

Salazar believed you would tell the King and the Church that you had seen remnants of the curse. Initially, as he had told you, he assumed that the Church wouldn’t believe you if you could only provide allegations. But he decided he couldn’t take that risk. He needed leverage over you and he knew, after your confrontation the other day, that you were likely poor and had no where else to go outside of the convent. 

So the plan was to blackmail you. He wouldn’t destroy your entire future if you didn’t destroy his entire life’s work. 

But that was proving to be more difficult than imagined. He looks up at you while he pretends to write. Even your wet hair was tucked up under a veil. 

He can’t help but smirk. Salazar would never admit it, but he admired your dedication to professionalism and presentation. Your clothing was always spotless, and you adhered to the strict dress codes that the Church demanded of you even though no Church officials were here. Not once did he ever see a strand of hair slip past the veil or a stain near one of the sleeve cuffs. That’s why he was so completely startled earlier that morning when you’d stumbled onto the quarter deck in your night wear, hair down and tangled. 

He sets the quill back into its silver holder and slides the document into a folder under the desk. Then, he stands and walks back around the desk so that he’s facing you. “We’ll be making port in a couple of days to repair the damage done to the _Mary_. You can stay up here until then. But I can’t promise that I won’t need my office during the daylight hours. You’re welcome to stay and keep me company, but I have to warn you—I’m not the best conversationalist.”

You give him a soft expression. He returns it with a stern frown; he knows no other way to react. There had always been women who had thrown themselves at him, showing him all manner of false kindnesses and sultry smiles. It had been a very, very long time since a woman—or anyone for that matter—had looked at him so kindly. 

“I’m glad you’re alright, Capitán. I know we haven’t really gotten along since I’ve been here, but I appreciate what you did for me today. I just want you to know . . .” Here, you take a chance. It was improper to engage in physical contact with a man when unsupervised, but you wanted him to know your sincerity. Even as your fingers shake, you steel your nerves and carefully take his large hand in your own. It’s much rougher than you imagined it to be—covered in callouses from sword fighting and hard work. “. . . I’m going to work hard so that you can complete your mission.” 

Armando looks between your little hand holding his and what had to be the most sincere, sweetest smile he’d ever seen. Something flickers in his chest, something familiar but very old and unrecognizable. It’s terrifying. He yanks his hand out of yours, balling it into a fist before stiffly resting it at his side. Your face falls and you look embarrassed, placing your own hands behind your back discreetly. 

“Good night, sister,” he coughs, already in the process of moving around you and toward the door. He clears the room in four swift strides, the heavy sound of his boots mimicking the loud thunder of blood in his ears. He doesn’t dare look back.

“Good night, Capitán,” you respond. Your voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears your words just before he slams the door shut behind him. 

Outside, he is confronted by Officer Moss at the helm. Moss takes one look at the Capitán and forms a confused, questioning look on his face. “Sir?”

Armando Salazar, his back flat against the door to his cabin, his face flushed with sweat beading at his brow, stares back at his Officer. Moss raises an eyebrow, suspicion growing, and fails to hold back a sly smile. “Making sure the sister is _comfortable_ , eh?”

\--

You stare at the door long after he's left. Perhaps he was angry at you for being too bold. Perhaps he saw it as a sign that you were forgetting your teachings, straying from the righteous path. Either way, you had upset him again meaning that you weren't making any progress. Exhausted, you sigh and head back over to your suitcase, pulling out the olive green gown that you'd stashed away. 

Pulling off your robes, you slip the garment on over your shoulders and tie it closed in the front. It is as soft as you had imagined it to be and as light as a feather. Sleeping in it for one night wouldn't be sin as long as you put it back where you found it in the morning. Right?

There is no bed or bunk to be seen around the cabin, so you assume it must be behind another set of draped curtains. And indeed it is--nestled to the left of his desk against the corner. And it was _gigantic_. The blankets are a deep red and made of what looked like quality material, the pillows are plentiful and stacked evenly. You run your hand under the thick duvet and pull it up just enough to slip yourself inside. 

It's very comfortable--much more comfortable than your own bunk or any of the hammocks that the crew slept in. The sheets are clean and soft, luring you into the middle of the bed. But most vividly, it smelled like him. Of gunpowder and cologne. It surrounds you, envelopes you. And as you bury your face into a pillow, breathing deeply, it lures you to sleep.


	6. Temptation

“Are you sure it’s alright?” you ask for the fourth time that morning. “Surely you have more important duties to attend to.”

Lieutenant Lesaro, who had been giving the crew orders to clear and clean the deck in preparation for repairs, takes a pause to say, “Officer Magda is overseeing the repairs done to the ship. Officer Santos is staying behind to watch over the _Mary_ with a small group of men in the meantime. The Capitán has his own affairs in the city. The rest of the crew is being loosely supervised by Officer Moss. Before my death, I would typically accompany the Capitán. But he gave me another task—escorting you. So, yes, I’m sure it is alright.”

As he talks, you stare at his profile, watching his gaze while he sharply observes his crew. You hadn’t spoken to Lesaro since he’d snapped at you. Of course, you weren’t mad at him or spiteful. His reaction to your behavior was understandable and, if anything, muted compared to how he could have responded. You weren’t following orders; he could have done a lot worse than just slap your wrists. 

It was a little uncomfortable. You’d known true reprimands before—the sisters were very well trained in discipline and punishment. Even the sound of a cane whipping through the air was enough to make you jump out of your skin. Your order was stricter than others, especially when you’d first joined as a child. So you really shouldn’t feel so strange around the lieutenant . . . and yet. 

He notices your silence and looks down at you, his brow furrowing a little when you visibly squirm under his gaze. “Unless you don’t want to spend your day with me?” He offers you a little smile. 

“No, that’s not it! It’s just that I didn’t want to be a bother to you. I know that I’ve been clinging to you since I’ve come aboard and I—,” 

Lesaro’s attention is drawn away as a sailor trips and spills a bucket of soapy water. The young man instantly fumbles to collect the pale as it bounces loudly on the deck. Lesaro berates the lower-ranking crew member, his Spanish so fast that it’s almost hard to catch what he’s saying despite being a native speaker yourself. Feeling sorry the lad, you try to politely look away as though you were not participating in the scene. 

The sailor darts off to find a mop and the lieutenant continues to mutter under his breath. At once, he remembers being in the middle of a conversation with you and turns on his heel to face you completely. “I’m sorry, sister. You were saying?”

“Oh, nothing,” you lie, waving a dismissive hand and faking a smile. “I was just saying I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

\--

Lesaro finishes his remaining responsibilities and turns over the _Mary_ to Santos. A carriage is waiting for the two of you by the harbor. You had no idea what you would be doing today. You had no money to speak of; sisters weren’t paid for their faith and even if they were, being materialistic was a sin in and of itself. That part was the hardest in your opinion. You could go months without wanting anything frivolous but then you’d see something small, something inexpensive, and you’d want it more than anything. But perhaps that was a factor of growing up impoverished rather than growing up in the convent. 

The lieutenant is quiet during the walk down the harbor. He helps you up into the carriage like he was taught to do years and years ago—one hand on the carriage door to hold it open and the other extended out to you so that you wouldn’t have to touch the dusty exterior. If he were courting you, he would have made some sort of flattering comment as well. But this was not a courtship. 

The two of you ride along in silence for a bit. The carriage driver steers toward the main part of town, awaiting directions for a specific shop or location. But you’d never been here before and Lesaro’s orders were to take you wherever you wanted to go. So, for the first ten or so minutes, the poor carriage driver drove here and there aimlessly. 

“Lieutenant,” you whisper. Too quiet. You have to clear your throat. “Have you been here before?”

He looks up at the carriage roof in contemplation. “I believe so. But it’s been a very long time and the city has grown and changed since then.”

“Where did you like to go before that?” You have to stop sounding so timid. He’s going to notice eventually. “Any suggestions?”

The carriage bounces between dirt and paved roads, jostling its contents around. You try to sit stiffly so that your shoulders don’t bump against his, but it’s ultimately futile. It’s such a small amount of space. 

Lesaro hums while he tries to remember. You stare—perhaps a little too long—at him while he thinks. At last he replies, “Well, as I said, I typically accompanied Capitán Salazar wherever he went. It was always strictly business. But I remember always passing by this one place . . .” He trails off, leaning forward to give the carriage driver a new direction. 

When he relaxes back into his seat, he chuckles a bit to himself. “I hope its still there. I don’t know if you’ll be interested in it, but I always wanted to stop by. Maybe it’s a bit foolish.”

As it turned out, the place he had wanted to visit was a little bakery nestled between a couple of merchant shops. The smell of bread and pastries carried down the entire street, luring patrons from blocks away. Lesaro looked embarrassed at first, second guessing himself. But your mouth was watering before he even opened the carriage door. 

The convent’s food was . . . adequate. They fed you appropriate portions and gave you meals three times a day. That didn’t mean that the food was necessarily good or even edible. And there was nearly no sugar to speak of even though it was easy to come by. The week aboard the Silent Mary had also been hell on your taste buds. But you’d suffered through it because you had no better options. 

This bakery was a gift from God. As if He was saying _“Sorry about everything lately. Here’s a treat.”_

“I know it’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Lesaro says as he helps you out of the carriage. “It certainly isn’t exotic or exciting. I’m afraid I’m not the best chaperone for you—,”

“Do you think they’ll have the little pastries with apple filling? Or peach ones? Ooh! What if they have mince pies?” You babble, nearly bouncing up and down as you wait for him to offer you his arm. Eventually, and with a perplexed and amused face, he does just that and you nearly drag him into the little shop. 

The smell is enough to make your stomach growl but you pay it no mind. Lesaro, having gotten over his initial embarrassment, is looking around eagerly. The shop is full of patrons, some haggling with the shop owner and some waiting in line. Beyond the counter, a man kneads a large ball of dough against a wooden table and an oven radiates heat into the room. There are several pastries and loafs on display on shelves behind the counter and they catch your eye at last. 

“Oh, look!” you gasp, taking Lesaro by the hand and leading him over to the display. “They have honey cakes! It’s been so long since I’ve had honey cake—it’ll rot your teeth if you aren’t careful.” 

“Do you want to buy some?” he asks, eyeing a plate of fritters himself. “We aren’t allowed to bring contraband back onto the _Mary_ , but something tells me it won’t last that long.” He chuckles to himself, calling over one of the chefs. 

“Oh, no, I can’t.” You lower your voice. He leans down so that you can discreetly tell him, “I . . . well. I don’t have any money.” 

The lieutenant straightens back up and stares down at you quizzically. You continue, “It’s alright though! Just watching the baker work and getting to smell the bread bake is fine! I’m enjoying myself.”

You cast your eyes back to the baker as he pulls out a fresh loaf of honey cake, golden brown and steaming. Lesaro follows your gaze, then casually turns to the worker and says, “Half a honey loaf, please. And, er . . . two cinnamon fritters. Thank you.”

“Lieutenant—,” you start to protest. 

“What do you think bread costs? A fortune?” He grins down at you, lightly nudging you with an elbow. “I can afford it.” 

“Yes but . . .” your face is pitifully red. “I can’t repay you.”

He looks more confused than ever. Rightfully fascinated, but very confused. “Sister, you don’t have to repay me. This is just a little gift.” 

Your mouth feels glued shut as he pays for the baked goods. You wanted to protest some more but he had made up his mind and was already handing over his coin before you realized it. “Do you want to sit in here or would you like to go find some place nice?” he asks, peering into the paper wrapped parcel. No doubt, he had his mind on the fritters. 

“Whatever you want,” you stammer. “You’re the one being so generous.”

So he led you to a little bench hidden under a grove of palm trees. It was well-shaded and overlooked the town square. Lesaro presents you with your bundled honey cake before diving back into the parcel for his own snack. 

“Lieutenant?” 

“You don’t have to refer to me as Lieutenant every time, you know.” He bites into a fritter and you see his shoulder muscles relax. 

“Lesaro, then?”

“Guillermo is fine, too.” Then, he adds, “Just not around the crew, of course.” He shoots you a grin and what might have been a wink if he didn’t have just the one eye. 

You smile. “Of course. Do you mind if I ask you something, Guillermo?”

He takes a moment to appreciate the sound of his name coming out of your mouth. Then, he shakes himself out of the stupor and responds, “Yes, if I have the answer for it.”

“Do you trust me to complete my mission?”

Lesaro, who had been leisurely looking around at the scenery, freezes. He turns his head to find you sitting with your unwrapped honey cake on your lap and your veil falling around your face like a curtain. He cannot see your expression, but he heard the sorrow in your voice. 

Instincts tell him to place a calming hand on your shoulder, but he knows better. The last time you had been upset, you’d embraced him and it nearly gave the poor man a heart attack. He’d enjoyed it, of course, but he had regretted letting it happen later. 

So, no, he does not reach out to you. Instead, he leans over until he can see your face and softly questions, “Why would you ask me something like that?”

The inner turmoil began to bubble to the surface. Ever since the Capitán had angrily stormed out the other night, you’d been fretting nonstop. You reply, your voice cracking, “I’m just worried. I don’t want to let you all down.”

Lesaro says nothing at first, letting the words dissipate into the humid tropical air. Sometimes, he believed, it was better to not say the first thing that came to your mind. Which for him, at the moment, was something along the lines of: _I don’t know what to tell you to make you feel better._

After taking the pause to come up with something better, he nods to himself and says, “Well. I’m going to be completely honest with you. You and I—and the rest of the crew—know that there’s still a trace of the curse left. And if you were to tell the King that, it would ruin us. But given your clear concern, I don’t believe you’d do such a thing. Now, that means that the only other way you could possibly fail is if you were to. . . began a life of crime?” 

You can’t help but snort, raising a hand to your mouth to suppress a laugh. 

Lesaro goes on, “See? Nothing to worry about.”

“Well,” you begin, trying to be serious, “It’s not that simple. If I decided to leave the order _at all_ they’d probably blame it on the black magic. I don’t even really have to begin a life of crime. It’d be as easy as growing apart from my faith or becoming attached to civilian life or falling in love.”

Lesaro goes still for just a moment. Almost unnoticeable. Then the moment passes. 

“You seem faithful to me.” He tells you, standing up and offering you his arm. 

“Yes,” you sigh, smiling. You feel much better after having talked about it. “And the church is all I have. I promise you, all of you, that I will see this through to the end.” 

\--

Salazar had given his lieutenant unorthodox orders that morning, ones that Lesaro had raised an eyebrow to at first. 

“Take her out and about,” Armando had said. “Offer to buy her something. If she accepts, continue to offer in every store you enter. At the end of the day, report back to me and tell me how many gifts she accepted from you—if any.”

Guillermo had learned not to question Salazar. And these orders had seemed relatively harmless—generous even. He had his suspicions of course; Armando was not a kind man or a giving man. And Lesaro was far from foolish. The Capitán was up to something sinister.

Well, perhaps not sinister. Guillermo knew that Salazar was not an evil man by anyone’s standards. 

So at the end of the day, the lieutenant brings you back to the ship. He tells you to quickly go to your newly repaired cabin and store away all the little, inexpensive, knick-knacks he’d bought for you. They were few in number and cost him next to nothing. And it had been worth it, ultimately, to have you feel comfortable around him again. 

You thank him again for the trinkets and for the nice day out. You tell him goodnight, your cheeks a bit sunburned from the day out, and walk back to your cabin. He watches you go, silently saying his goodbyes to the best day he had had in twenty-five years, then he made his way up to the quarterdeck. In Salazar’s cabin, he found Armando pacing the floors. When the capitán caught sight of his lieutenant, he stopped. 

“There you are. I’ve been waiting all day.” He is clearly a little irritated, having expected Lesaro to bring you back hours ago. 

“My apologies, Capitán. Time got away from us.”

Salazar gestures for Guillermo to sit before eagerly sitting down himself to hear the news. He leans forward, the beginnings of a smirk on his lips, and asks, “How did it go?”

Lesaro takes a deep breath and looks around the room as though he were trying to remember all the details of the day. Keeping Salazar in suspense was a dangerous game, but it appeared more realistic. He would need all the realism he could muster, seeing as he was about to lie. 

“It didn’t go well, Capitán. I offered to buy her all manner of things. But she adamantly refused each time.”

Armando’s face scrunches in anger and he leans back in his chair, placing a thoughtful hand to his chin. “What sort of things were you offering, exactly?”

This was a complicated question. If Lesaro lists expensive items, Salazar will tell him he was being unreasonably generous and that it probably made you suspicious. If he is honest and lists the inexpensive things he did actually buy you, Salazar will _still_ angrily say that he wasn’t offering you anything you’d want. So, ultimately, he says, “Anything I caught her staring at. Some fabric, some jewelry, ect.” 

Armando nods absentmindedly while Lesaro talks, not really listening past the first few words. He immediately asks, “And how persuasive were you?”

“Persuasive?” Lesaro echoes. “An adequate amount, I should say—,”

Salazar slams a fist down on his desk. Despite the abruptness of the action, Guillermo doesn’t even blink. There is a flicker of gold in Armando’s eyes before he closes them shut tightly. The Capitán grits his teeth in silence for a minute until he has recollected himself. This might be Lesaro’s only chance to pry. 

“Capitán, if you don’t mind my asking . . . what is your objective here?” He is no longer acting. He genuinely wants to know. “Are you _wanting_ her to sin?”

“Of course I am!” Salazar exclaims, throwing his hands up into the air. “And you should too! The second she does, I have the upper-hand again.” 

Lesaro is perfectly confused. “What are you _talking_ about? We want her to succeed! So that we can succeed!”

Salazar laughs and there are whispers of madness in his voice. Guillermo’s gaze narrows. 

“She’s not going to last three years,” Salazar scoffs, standing up and walking over to his personal safe. He brings out two glasses and a bottle of rum. Lesaro watches him, regarding him coldly. “She’s not taken her vows yet and she’s being exposed to a life of freedom. Yes, she will break. And when she does,” he has poured Lesaro a glass and elegantly slides it across the desk. Lesaro does not touch it. “I’ll remind her that the convent is all she has.”

Guillermo can so clearly hear you saying those exact words from earlier that day. His fists clench where they sit on the armrests. “She won’t tell the King about the curse. We’ve talked about this. I’m telling you, she’s a good person and she wants to do what she can to help us.”

Armando’s eyes narrow. He looks his lieutenant up and down, sizing him up, before a grin pulls at the side of his lips. Lesaro looks away. “You’re in love with her.”

“I’m not.” Lesaro scoffs. “She’s a nun.”

“No she’s not,” Armando counters, his voice dead-panned. He takes a sip from his rum and analyzes his lieutenant from over the glass rim. “You could have her if you wanted her.”

Lesaro shifts in his chair, uncomfortable and equally angry. He’s better at hiding the latter. “I’m sure you’d like that. It would work well with your plan to corrupt her. But I assure you, I am first and foremost dedicated to helping you hunt down and kill the Sparrow. I have no feelings for her. If I seem so close to her, it is to get closer to my religion. That is all.”

He must have been convincing enough because Armando rolls his eyes—much like he used to do when both men were younger and better friends. “That’s enough, Guillermo. I was teasing you. You’re my most loyal friend and comrade. I know you would never let something so fleeting to get in the way of everything we’ve worked for.”

Guillermo holds back a sigh of relief. “Of course, Capitán.”

“You’re dismissed,” Salazar says. “But not before you finish your glass.”

\--

Lesaro clings to the railing of the steps leading down the quarterdeck. One glass had turned into three. He hadn’t refused Armando’s offer for fear that the Capitán would grow suspicious. Now he was regretting it. 

His cabin was the cabin parallel to your own. His was slightly bigger, better furnished, and featured a port-side window. It wasn’t home, no. But he’d slept more nights in this bed than in his childhood bed back in Madrid. That part of his life seemed so long ago. 

Lesaro struggles to undress himself, finally sliding into bed with his clothes still on. He stares at the spinning ceiling and gathers his thoughts. 

All in all, it had been a very good day. He hadn’t had a moment of leisure in ages and it felt nice just to walk around in society again. You were very decent company to keep. He didn’t have to worry about performing in front of you like he would have if he’d been with nobility or higher ranking officials. He couldn’t even completely relax around the crew, given that he was in charge of them and needed to keep up appearances. It was refreshing to be . . . honest. Genuine. A frown appears on his tired face. 

He wasn’t in love with you. 

\--

You wait by your cabin door, pressing your ear to the wood. You can hear Lesaro—presumably—come down the stairs and head toward his own cabin. His door opens and then it closes. You’re in the clear. 

Lesaro had warned you about contraband on the ship. But if he had taught you anything today, it was that selfless gift-giving was a fantastic way of mending relationships. 

You’d gone into a wood-working shop that day and Lesaro had offered to buy you something. He’d done that all day and by the time the sun came down on the horizon, you had your hands full. It felt wrong to take advantage of his generosity but he had adamantly assured you that it was something he wanted to do. You assumed he wanted to make amends with you and this was just how people did it. After all, you’d grown up in the convent for most of your life. You had no idea how these things were done. 

So, you had picked out a tiny whittled figurine and Lesaro had purchased it without a second thought. 

With the whittled figurine hidden in your sleeve, you exit your cabin. 

\--

Armando had just started to undress for bed when a knock came at his door. He glanced around the room, thinking that Guillermo had left something behind and was coming back for it. Finding nothing, he goes for the door, calling out, “Whoever it is better have good reason to disturb me so late.”

When he opens the door and sees you standing there, looking sheepish, he is floored. “Little Mouse?”

“Good evening, Capitán. I’m sorry to bother you.”

He is still a little irritated at you for being so pure and unyielding in his tests. He tries not to let it show when he replies, “It’s inappropriate for you to seek my company so late at night.”

A blush creeps up on your cheeks and he feels that same familiar stirring in his chest from the night before. You really are quite lovely. If he were the young officer he once was and you weren’t a nun? 

“I know, I meant to come sooner. But you were convening with the lieutenant. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“What is it you need?”

Armando’s trained gaze is locked upon you as you try to work up the courage to do what you came to do. As he waits, he speculates what could possibly be so important that you came up here. His natural affinity for paranoia and distrust leads him to believe all sorts of damning possibilities. 

So when you pull out a little carved figurine of a matador from your sleeve, he can only stare at it blankly. 

“I saw this today and I thought of you,” you say shyly. “I know you don’t have any faith in me. And I know you must resent me for being here.” You look up at him and the sheer determination in your eyes is enough to snap him out of his stupor. “But I’m going to prove you wrong.”

The two of you stare at each other, both unwavering, until he silently extends his open palm to accept the gift. You place it down gently, nearly bursting with pride and satisfaction. He observes it, running the pad of his thumb over the smooth edges. 

Lesaro lied to him. 

That would need to be dealt with eventually, yes. But presently he is too preoccupied with an idea that is starting to take root in his mind. Ironically, Lesaro had been the one to suggest it. It seemed so obvious, so simple. 

Salazar puts on his most charming smile and leans against the doorframe so that he’s craning over you ever so slightly. The change in position puts him much, much closer to your height and you feel your heart skip in your chest. He’s always been handsome, but tonight he’s out of his stiff uniform, wearing his black undershirt that’s buttoned down enough so that you can see his chest. Your face is hot and you try to look anywhere else. 

“Little Mouse, you think I don’t have faith in you?” He asks, looking wounded. “Perhaps I’ve been too harsh.”

When he’s this close, it’s easy to smell his cologne and think about the nights you spent in his bed. You stammer, “O-oh well, it’s in the past. I was hoping we could put it behind us and start again.”

Armando grins, looking down at you with hooded eyelids. You finally work up the nerve to meet his intense gaze.

You take a deep breath. You suppress a smile that comes anyway. You look away, embarrassed. 

Yes, this would work. 

“I’d like nothing more,” he practically whispers. Its enough to make goose bumps form on your arms. “But for now, you should return to your cabin. We’ll be sailing into a storm tomorrow; you’ll want to be well-rested.”

“Yes, of course.” You can’t conceal how pleased you are with how this interaction has gone. “Goodnight Capitán.” 

You turn to leave and he calls after you, “Sleep well, Little Mouse.” 

Back in the privacy of his cabin, Armando finishes undressing and walks over to his desk, setting the matador carving where he might look upon it during the day. It was artfully made; he did indeed like it. He slips into bed and places both arms behind his head, looking up at the ceiling of his cabin. Yes, this would be easier than setting little traps for you. It allowed him to be much more proactive, which he preferred. 

This plan would take time. He would have other more important and pressing matters to focus on. But he had three whole years to get you into the palm of his hand. 

He will seduce you, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jokes on you guys, this was going to be a love triangle fic from day ONE. >:)


	7. Salazar//The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salazar's Route, Chapter 7, The Storm

Sailing had become tolerable to you to in the short amount of time you’d been aboard the _Silent Mary_. Having never sailed before, it was at first very disorienting. The older nuns had warned about sea sickness, saying that it could last for months and months. But in your experience, it had gone away very quickly. Aside from the battle that took place a few days ago, the journey had been smooth sailing.

But you had yet to experience a storm. 

It hardly ever rained in Barcelona and when it did, the showers were often light and short-lived. Thunder and lightening storms were even rarer. You would escort the children out onto the street to play in the cool shower, never worrying about downpours or lightning strikes. The worst experience you’d had was having to run across the courtyard during a surprising heavy rain; it had merely soaked your shoulders. 

But this? The howling wind and the booming thunder and the sound of rain coming down in buckets? You almost preferred the cannon fire. 

Earlier that day, the sky had been clear of any clouds and the wind was so warm and light that you’d read your scripture up on deck. You had even chuckled to yourself; perhaps the Capitán was out of practice when it came to predicting storms. 

And, like every situation where you doubted that man, you were proved wrong. 

Now, you are huddled in the corner of your bunk with your head between your knees. The _Mary_ tilts and rolls from side to side like it was made of paper and your stomach rolls along with it. You ate a very light breakfast that morning, thank the Lord, and it’s manageable as long as you take deep breaths. 

Lesaro is at the helm—that much you knew because Salazar would trust no one else to control the _Mary_ while he commanded the crew. You could hear the Capitán’s bootsteps above your head as he barked orders left and right. It was amazing how clear his voice was over the sound of everything else. You used it at an anchor to hold onto—calming your nerves. 

How could they stand out there in such a downpour? They didn’t really have a choice, but it still seemed so strange to picture the Capitán’s groomed and well-kept self drenched and soggy. 

The officers likely had it much worse. After the storm resided, you knew you’d be hearing all about it. At least, you would hear it from the Officers who actually spoke to you. 

There were still crew members who had yet to really make an impression. You were beginning to learn their names despite the fact that they’d never introduced themselves to you. One was Officer Nico who—you suspected—was just rather reserved and possibly shy. He was never rude to you. On occasion, he would make eye contact with you from across the deck and would nearly trip over himself in the process. When Salazar had frightened you so badly that one evening, Nico had been one of the crew members who had come down to your cabin—offering you a wrapped toffee that he’d been stashing away. But then later that night, when you’d come to eat dinner with the crew, he had hastily put up his hammock and gone to bed. Peculiar, indeed. 

Another was Officer Chris who, quite honestly, was just never in the right place at the right time to make your acquaintance. He’d tried—or at least, you think he had tried—several times in the last week. You remember a certain officer making his way across the deck toward you only to be given orders at the last second. That same officer had tried to tell you a little joke over dinner that one night—but you were sitting next to his lieutenant and he, presumably, chickened out. 

Both of these men had spoken to you today—in full sentences! They’d been given orders from the Capitán himself to escort you down to your room before the storm hit. You’d questioned them at the time, seeing as the weather was so perfect, and they’d responded: 

“Capitán’s orders, sister. Storms arrive quicker out on the sea.” Officer Nico had said in his deep and somehow simultaneously soft voice. 

“It’s true, sister,” Officer Chris had chimed in, looking eager to finally get a word in. “Don’t want your scriptures to get ruined.”

They had both been right, as had Capitán Salazar. The storm hit not too long after you had settled down for your midday prayers. And, four hours later, it was still raging. 

After the incident with the pirates, Salazar had given orders to some of the lower ranking crew members to routinely check on you in your cabin. It was a surprisingly thoughtful thing for him to do, though the lack of an actual threat seemed to indicate that he wasn’t checking on your wellbeing, but rather, whether or not you had escaped your cabin. It was a little degrading, really, that he didn’t trust you to stay out of the way. That last incident was out of your control. Whether or not he was actually worried about you or if he was just keeping himself insured was up for debate. 

The last thing he needed was for you to die by a lightening strike or by slipping on the deck and breaking your neck. That would be hard to explain to the King and Church. 

You giggle to yourself at the thought, only for your stomach to protest loudly. 

\--

Armando squints against the rain. It’d been a while since he’d sailed in a storm like this one. Years and years of being trapped within the Devil’s Triangle had made him forget what being tossed to-and-fro by the angry ocean felt like. He didn’t feel like _El Matador del Mar_ at this moment—he felt anxious. Though his nerves were on edge, he did not let this hinder him from commanding the crew. 

They, too, looked more than a little off their rhythm. They were out of practice and it infuriated him to no end. Not only had The Sparrow taken away years of their lives and effectively destroyed their legacy, he had condemned them to years of monotonous busy-work that ultimately made them soft and half the men they once were. 

It was because of this, Salazar believed, that they had been unable to defeat The Sparrow at Poseidon’s Tomb. But they would be prepared for their next encounter. And days like these? Days where they were forced to remember proper procedure and discipline? It would only make them stronger. 

“Hoist the sails!” He bellows, his voice louder than the thunder that bounces against the waves. The Capitán watches his men scramble to hoist the storm sails they’d put up earlier that day. Even the stronger material was not enough to withstand these winds; at this rate, they’d do more harm to the masts than good. 

He raises an arm to shield his face from the onslaught and turns to Lesaro at the helm. Guillermo was positively soaked, his clothes heavy and his hair loose and wet. Even so, his face was calm and focused. He stands with his feet firmly planted and both hands on the wheel to keep him steady, awaiting orders. 

“Sail us against the wind!” They wouldn’t be able to continue on their scheduled path. The storm was massive and they hadn’t reached the center of it yet. The _Mary_ couldn’t take much more; she’d only just been repaired. They’d need to go around. 

“Sir,” Lesaro grunts, spinning the wheel in accordance with the order. The _Mary_ careens to the right as she begins to make the turn—threatening to tip as wave after wave crashes into the portside. When the wind hits the storm sails, she picks up tremendous speed. Salazar grips the railing, bracing himself, and stares up at the raging storm above them. 

There’s a flash of light—so quick that he hardly registers it—then a noise so earthshattering that all other sounds around instantly drowned into silence. The ship shudders violently—the air fills with the smell of smoke and tickle of electricity. Then it’s over and the ringing in his ears subsides so that he can finally hear the screaming. 

\--

The lightning strike is so violent that you can feel a physical vibration from it all the way from your room. The Mary groans and not long after that, there is a sickening crunch of wood snapping and breaking. Another force jostles the ship and you start to hear screaming and shouting over the raging wind. 

Your heart in your throat, you can only imagine the worst possible outcomes. The men are shouting at each other to “heave” something and their grunts are accompanied by a singular shriek of pain. Someone was injured badly. Someone was dying. 

You stand up, your rosary wrapped tightly around your wrist. Last time, you’d said prayers over corpses, knowing the entire time that their souls were already gone and out of your grasp. You had failed them—had hid where you were safe and sound and you’d let them fight, and die, alone. If you close your eyes, you can still see Santos, Moss, Magda, their faces devoid of emotion. These men had no concept of death, no concept of what it meant to die. 

What was your purpose here if not to remind them of hope? 

Salazar had forbade you from going up on deck but you were prepared for whatever punishment he could give. You step outside into the stairwell leading up onto the deck, bracing yourself with both arms on either wall of the narrow corridor. It’s pitch black due to the upper door being closed and, as you clamber up the stairs on your hands and knees, you pray that it’s not locked. 

It swings open with some difficulty, a river of rain water pouring down the stairs and soaking the bottom of your robes and your shoes. To avoid flooding your room, you quickly fling yourself outside and slam the door closed behind you. Outside, the sound is louder than ever. Rain is crashing down onto the deck in thick, heavy drops. The wind hits you hard, knocking you back against the closed door, tearing at your robes and veil. You have to cling to the veil in particular to keep it from flying away. 

Before you, the deck is in chaos. Despite how wet everything is, there are small fires left behind by the lightning strike. A piece of the main yard from the mainmast has broken off and lays, smoking, across the center of the deck. Men—crew members and officers alike—are scrambling to try and lift it up. Their hands are being scorched by the burnt wood and they grunt and groan in pain as they heave. Under the main yard lies the reason for their struggling—a younger man who has been crushed beneath the wood. He's still alive though only his upper body is visible. Blood seeps from him and washes across the deck. You can hear him better now; he’s stopped screaming for help and is now whimpering weakly. 

Hesitantly, you gather up your sopping robes into your fists and start to move over to him. The wind knocks you left and right, blowing away your veil now that you can’t hold onto it. You hardly even notice it’s gone; your attention is locked onto the young sailor. You recognize him. It’s the boy who filled your bath the other night. He looks so young. 

Against the lurching of the _Mary_ you complete your journey, falling to your knees beside the lad. Around you, you can hear officers shouting at you while they heave, telling you not to touch him and to go back to your room. But the boy—he looks up at you and he smiles, blood coating his teeth and dripping down his chin, and it steels your resolve.

You carefully lift his head and set it down onto your soaked lap, brushing his wet hair out of his face. Over the chaos, you say, “I’m here for you. Let us pray.”

He’s still looking at you like he’s in the middle of a dream, watching as you recite his last rites. Your voice is surprisingly steady and calm as you go. You don’t forget or stammer over a single word and the boy listens to you until you’re done. 

“You’re alright,” you say softly, petting his hair down. “You’re going to be alright.”

“M—,” he begins, spluttering blood all over. It is as if all the noise in the world—the rain, the thunder, the crew—comes to a halt to hear him. “Momma? Is that you?”

You’re frozen on the spot, eyes wide. “I—,”

“Momma, I’m sorry,” he says, tears building in his eyes. They join the rest of the water running down his face. “I’m sorry . . . I never came home. I . . . should never have left you all alone.”

You hold your breath and look away from him, your throat burning, trying to hold back your own tears.

“Momma? . . . Are you there?” His gaze flickers left and right but he can no longer see anything. Panic washes across his features. He reaches up and touches your wet hair, clinging to it like a child. 

You close your eyes tightly, then open them and look back to the boy with a warm smile on your face. “It’s alright, Momma’s right here. I’m . . . I’m so proud of you.”

Relief. And then joy. He smiles wide, looking up at the sky—at nothing—and whispers, “I’m . . . coming home.”

Then he’s gone. His grip goes limp and his hand falls down to his chest. His breath stops and blood pools in his mouth, pouring freely out the side. It stains your robes and your hands and your skin but still you cradle him and pet down his hair. 

He could come back. Salazar came back. And you would be there when he did. 

The wind has let up significantly—a fact that you only just begin to observe—and the clarity in the air allows you to hear the heavy fall of bootsteps and the jingling of medals coming up behind you. 

“What are you doing up here?!” someone yells angrily. “Can you not follow basic orders? I told you to—,”

They place a heavy hand on your shoulder and you whip around, screaming, “Don’t you touch me! No one touch me!”

Thunder booms distantly. Tears are streaming down your cheeks. You hadn’t even noticed. The Capitán stares down at you with an expression that is two parts bewildered and one part vexed. His hand is still outstretched. His lips are parted but he says nothing. 

You look around you, seeing the rest of the crew staring at you in a stunned silence. Some of them look sympathetic, other’s looked at you like the Capitán was. You glare at them all, turning your head back down to the young sailor. “He could come back,” you whisper. “The curse . . . he could—,”

“The damage is too great,” says one of the men. 

“Only minor wounds can heal,” says another.

“He’s gone—,”

“Quiet, all of you.” Salazar says, his voice steady and low. The crew hushes all around you and you can hear his bootsteps coming just a little closer. Again, he puts a hand on your shoulder. You don’t protest this time. He says your name, sternly but softly, then, “Come with me. That’s an order.”

Your hands are freezing from the wet and the rain but, still, you manage to lift the boys head off of your lap and gently place it down on the deck. You make the sign of the cross, reflect in silence for a second, then sniffle and try to stand up. The weight of the young man on your lap coupled with the cold of the rain has numbed your legs and you stumble. Two strong hands easy catch you by your waist and help to balance you. Weakly, you look up at the Capitán as he takes you by the arm and helps you to walk. He’s looking up at his men, not at you. “Clean this up,” he orders. Then he escorts you toward your room. 

Your side is pressed flush against his own. Both of you are completely drenched, dripping water onto the floor of your room as he helps you over onto the side of the bed. He begins to look for some dry clothes, all the while saying, “You shouldn’t have disobeyed orders. You are not exempt from obeying me just because you belong to the Church. Do you think that when I tell you to do something it is only because I’m being cruel? That I’m doing it just because I can? What if you had gotten in someone’s way? What if another strike hit the _Mary_? Do you think I want to have to bury you in the ocean? Eh?” 

He produces a clean nightgown and turns to look at you. He’s still clearly very angry while he talks but the second he sees you staring blankly at your floor, he eases back. You can hear him sigh and before you know it, he’s standing in front of you, only his boots visible between the wet strands of your hair. 

Salazar kneels down, setting the nightgown onto the bed next to you. He waits for you to look up at him, and when you don’t, he makes a ‘tsk’ sound and reaches up, tucking your wet hair behind your ears. “I don’t know what to make of you.” He murmurs. “You were very brave, but I don’t need you to be brave, Little Mouse. I need you to live.” 

“You came back,” you whisper. Tears build up in your eyes again. When you finally look at him, they start to fall down your cheeks all over again. Salazar’s jaw clenches; he looks at you with more patience and understanding than you’ve ever seen from him. “When you died, you came back. I’m so glad you came back.” 

Again and again that feeling builds up in his chest and he thinks he’s a step closer to identifying it. And again and again it panics him and he pushes it back down, excuses it for something else, replaces it with resentment for you. 

But even so, he cannot stop himself this time. He easily pulls you into the nook of his shoulder and just holds you for a long moment. You cry into his uniform, something that he would normally not tolerate. But, he rationalizes, he’s already wet so it doesn’t really matter. You’re so cold against him. His hand on your back moves in slow circles to try and bring warmth to your skin. “Brave little mouse. You’re going to catch a cold.” 

\--

Armando makes you promise that you’ll change into dryer clothes and lie down. And once you finally do, he returns to his position up on the quarterdeck, observing the men as they toss the body overboard and begin repairs to the mast. 

Lesaro had not left his position at the helm during any of the commotion and, though he did not say a word, Salazar could tell he wanted to ask about you. 

Armando hadn’t spoken to his lieutenant yet about the lie he’d told. And now was not the time for it. So instead, Salazar says, “I’ve ordered the novitiate to rest. If you see her above deck, admonish her and see her back to her room.”

“Yes, sir.” Lesaro tilts his head in agreement, his finger tapping ever so slightly against the helm. “Is she alright?”

“She’s fine, don’t bother her,” Salazar says, perhaps a little too quickly. The two men share a long, tense look before Lesaro eventually glances back to the ocean. 

“Of course, Capitán. We’ll await a new heading.”

Salazar is already halfway to his quarters by the end of Lesaro’s sentence. The storm had made his healing knee ache long before it was even upon them. He curses himself for not using the cane; it would take forever for it to stop throbbing. Armando strips himself of his wet uniform and goes to his chifforobe to produce a dry, clean one. While he’s at it, he grabs the cane just in case. They were already losing space between them and The Sparrow. The trail was going cold. He would need an act of God to catch up with the lost informant at this rate. 

He smirks to himself as he buttons up his new waistcoat.

Perhaps he could request you say a prayer.


	8. Lesaro//The Storm

Sailing had become tolerable to you to in the short amount of time you’d been aboard the _Silent Mary_. Having never sailed before, it was at first very disorienting. The older nuns had warned about sea sickness, saying that it could last for months and months. But in your experience, it had gone away very quickly. Aside from the battle that took place a few days ago, the journey had been smooth sailing.

But you had yet to experience a storm. 

It hardly ever rained in Barcelona and when it did, the showers were often light and short-lived. Thunder and lightening storms were even rarer. You would escort the children out onto the street to play in the cool shower, never worrying about downpours or lightning strikes. The worst experience you’d had was having to run across the courtyard during a surprising heavy rain; it had merely soaked your shoulders. 

But this? The howling wind and the booming thunder and the sound of rain coming down in buckets? You almost preferred the cannon fire. 

Earlier that day, the sky had been clear of any clouds and the wind was so warm and light that you’d read your scripture up on deck. You had even chuckled to yourself; perhaps the Capitán was out of practice when it came to predicting storms. 

And, like every situation where you doubted that man, you were proved wrong. 

Now, you are huddled in the corner of your bunk with your head between your knees. The _Mary_ tilts and rolls from side to side like it was made of paper and your stomach rolls along with it. You ate a very light breakfast that morning, thank the Lord, and it’s manageable as long as you take deep breaths. 

The Capitán is at the helm—that much you knew because Salazar would trust no one but himself to control the _Mary_ while Lesaro commanded the crew. You could hear the Lieutenant’s shouts and commands above your head as he paced left and right. It was comforting to hear him over the roaring of the wind. You’d feel much better if he were here with you, but alas. 

How could they stand out there in such a downpour? They didn’t really have a choice, but it still seemed so strange to picture the Capitán’s groomed and well-kept self drenched and soggy. 

The officers likely had it much worse. After the storm resided, you knew you’d be hearing all about it. At least, you would hear it from the Officers who actually spoke to you. 

There were still crew members who had yet to really make an impression. You were beginning to learn their names despite the fact that they’d never introduced themselves to you. One was Officer Nico who—you suspected—was just rather reserved and possibly shy. He was never rude to you. On occasion, he would make eye contact with you from across the deck and would nearly trip over himself in the process. When Salazar had frightened you so badly that one evening, Nico had been one of the crew members who had come down to your cabin—offering you a wrapped toffee that he’d been stashing away. But then later that night, when you’d come to eat dinner with the crew, he had hastily put up his hammock and gone to bed. Peculiar, indeed. 

Another was Officer Chris who, quite honestly, was just never in the right place at the right time to make your acquaintance. He’d tried—or at least, you think he had tried—several times in the last week. You remember a certain officer making his way across the deck toward you only to be given orders at the last second. That same officer had tried to tell you a little joke over dinner that one night—but you were sitting next to his lieutenant and he, presumably, chickened out.  
Both of these men had spoken to you today—in full sentences! They’d been given orders from the Lt. Lesaro to escort you down to your room before the storm hit. You’d questioned them at the time, seeing as the weather was so perfect, and they’d responded: 

“Lieutenant’s orders, sister. Storms arrive quicker out on the sea.” Officer Nico had said in his deep and somehow simultaneously soft voice. 

“It’s true, sister,” Officer Chris had chimed in, looking eager to finally get a word in. “Don’t want your scriptures to get ruined.”

They had both been right, as had Lesaro. The storm hit not too long after you had settled down for your midday prayers. And, four hours later, it was still raging. 

Lesaro, who had been absent during the incident with the pirates, had given orders to some of the lower ranking crew members to routinely check on you in your cabin. He never mentioned that day or where he had been when your cabin had been invaded. But, clearly, he felt a twinge of regret for not coming to your aide as the Capitán had. His remorse, though not explicitly stated, was evident enough. Such a thoughtful act from the Lieutenant came as no surprise to you. And though it was a little embarrassing to have officer’s keeping tabs on you, it was also very endearing.

The last thing he needed was for you to die by a lightning strike or by slipping on the deck and breaking your neck. The Capitán would be red in the face from yelling at him. 

You giggle to yourself at the thought, only for your stomach to protest loudly. 

\--

Guillermo can barely see past the bow of the ship as the _Silent Mary_ churns back and forth. He had never liked storms, ever since he was a boy. Overcoming this fear had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. But one can’t be terrified of such things and also aspire to be a high-ranking officer so he’d faced this fear time and time again. Years spent in the Devil’s Triangle had dulled his senses and now, in the middle of a raging ocean, he could feel his hands shaking. 

He does not let his unease show as he yells orders to the crew. The men were running around like chickens without heads, having forgotten the standard procedure for a storm of this magnitude. Guillermo is grateful that Salazar stood at the helm and could not see the disorder below him. 

There was some comfort in knowing that he wasn’t the only man here who had lost a step after death. All of them were struggling—and working hard—to remember who they once were. Proud, elite soldiers of Spain. It was difficult, yes, to adjust to being amongst the living. But Lesaro believed at his very core that they could rise again to their former glory. 

“Hoist the sails!” He shouts, observing the density of the storm. They couldn’t make it any farther in, they’d need to turn around. 

He faces the Capitán, tilting his hat to shield his face from the downpour. The Capitán’s hair had come lose from the wind and it stuck to his face like his wet clothes stuck to his tense figure. Salazar’s expression is stoic; he doesn’t want to go off course but he acknowledges that there is no other way. The storm sails weren’t going to be thick enough to withstand these winds and would only do more damage to the masts. They’d need to sail outside of the storm and, effectively, go around. Having reached this decision, Salazar nods to himself and begins to steer the _Mary_ against the wind. 

Lesaro braces himself using the railing as a tremendous wave crashes into the portside, threatening to flip the ship as she struggled to make the turn. Then the wind connects with the sails and _Silent Mary_ picks up speed, piercing through the ragged waves and away from the storm’s path. 

He looks up at the sky just in time to be blinded by a flash of light. With the light came a sound so violent that he could feel it in his chest, as if he had been dealt a blow. Lesaro blinks, trying desperately to regain his vision when he hears the sound of wood beginning to splinter. 

\--

The lightning strike is so violent that you can feel a physical vibration from it all the way from your room. The _Mary_ groans and not long after that, there is a sickening crunch of wood snapping and breaking. Another force jostles the ship and you start to hear screaming and shouting over the raging wind. 

Your heart in your throat, you can only imagine the worst possible outcomes. The men are shouting at each other to “heave” something and their grunts are accompanied by a singular shriek of pain. Someone was injured badly. Someone was dying. 

You stand up, your rosary wrapped tightly around your wrist. Last time, you’d said prayers over corpses, knowing the entire time that their souls were already gone and out of your grasp. You had failed them—had hid where you were safe and sound and you’d let them fight, and die, alone. If you close your eyes, you can still see Santos, Moss, Magda, their faces devoid of emotion. These men had no concept of death, no concept of what it meant to die. 

What was your purpose here if not to remind them of hope? 

Lesaro had all but begged you not to go up on deck but you were prepared for whatever reprimands he might give. You step outside into the stairwell leading up onto the deck, bracing yourself with both arms on either wall of the narrow corridor. It’s pitch black due to the upper door being closed and, as you clamber up the stairs on your hands and knees, you pray that it’s not locked. 

It swings open with some difficulty, a river of rain water pouring down the stairs and soaking the bottom of your robes and your shoes. To avoid flooding your room, you quickly fling yourself outside and slam the door closed behind you. Outside, the sound is louder than ever. Rain is crashing down onto the deck in thick, heavy drops. The wind hits you hard, knocking you back against the closed door, tearing at your robes and veil. You have to cling to the veil in particular to keep it from flying away. 

Before you, the deck is in chaos. Despite how wet everything is, there are small fires left behind by the lightning strike. A piece of the main yard from the mainmast has broken off and lays, smoking, across the center of the deck. Men—crew members and officers alike—are scrambling to try and lift it up. Their hands are being scorched by the burnt wood and they grunt and groan in pain as they heave. Under the main yard lies the reason for their struggling—a younger man who has been crushed beneath the wood. He's still alive though only his upper body is visible. Blood seeps from him and washes across the deck. You can hear him better now; he’s stopped screaming for help and is now whimpering weakly. 

Hesitantly, you gather up your sopping robes into your fists and start to move over to him. The wind knocks you left and right, blowing away your veil now that you can’t hold onto it. You hardly even notice it’s gone; your attention is locked onto the young sailor. You recognize him. It’s the boy who filled your bath the other night. He looks so young. 

Against the lurching of the _Mary_ you complete your journey, falling to your knees beside the lad. Around you, you can hear officers shouting at you while they heave, telling you not to touch him and to go back to your room. But the boy—he looks up at you and he smiles, blood coating his teeth and dripping down his chin, and it steels your resolve.

You carefully lift his head and set it down onto your soaked lap, brushing his wet hair out of his face. Over the chaos, you say, “I’m here for you. Let us pray.”

He’s still looking at you like he’s in the middle of a dream, watching as you recite his last rites. Your voice is surprisingly steady and calm as you go. You don’t forget or stammer over a single word and the boy listens to you until you’re done. 

“You’re alright,” you say softly, petting his hair down. “You’re going to be alright.”

“M—,” he begins, spluttering blood all over. It is as if all the noise in the world—the rain, the thunder, the crew—comes to a halt to hear him. “Momma? Is that you?”

You’re frozen on the spot, eyes wide. “I—,”

“Momma, I’m sorry,” he says, tears building in his eyes. They join the rest of the water running down his face. “I’m sorry . . . I never came home. I . . . should never have left you all alone.”

You hold your breath and look away from him, your throat burning, trying to hold back your own tears.

“Momma? . . . Are you there?” His gaze flickers left and right but he can no longer see anything. Panic washes across his features. He reaches up and touches your wet hair, clinging to it like a child. 

You close your eyes tightly, then open them and look back to the boy with a warm smile on your face. “It’s alright, Momma’s right here. I’m . . . I’m so proud of you.”

Relief. And then joy. He smiles wide, looking up at the sky—at nothing—and whispers, “I’m . . . coming home.”

Then he’s gone. His grip goes limp and his hand falls down to his chest. His breath stops and blood pools in his mouth, pouring freely out the side. It stains your robes and your hands and your skin but still you cradle him and pet down his hair. 

He could come back. Salazar came back. And you would be there when he did. 

The wind has let up significantly—a fact that you only just begin to observe—and the clarity in the air allows you to hear the heavy fall of bootsteps coming up behind you. 

“Sister, what are you doing?” someone yells angrily. “It’s too dangerous up here, you need to go back to—,”

They place a cautious hand on your shoulder and you whip around, screaming, “Don’t you touch me! No one touch me!”

Thunder booms distantly. Tears are streaming down your cheeks. You hadn’t even noticed. Lesaro looks down at you in shock, as though touching you had burned him. His expression shifts rapidly between concern and frustration. On one hand, you had disobeyed him in front of his men. On the other, you had only good intentions. So he just stands there, hand outstretched, watching you cry, unable to help. 

You look around you, seeing the rest of the crew staring at you in a stunned silence. Some of them look sympathetic, other’s looked at you like you’d gone mad. You glare at them all, turning your head back down to the young sailor. “He could come back,” you whisper. “The curse . . . he could—,”

“The damage is too great,” says one of the men. 

“Only minor wounds can heal,” says another.

“He’s gone—,”

“That’s enough!” Lesaro hisses, affixing each man with a deadly glare. The crew hushes all around you and you can hear his bootsteps coming just a little closer. Again, he puts a hand on your shoulder. You don’t protest this time. He says your name, so quietly that only you can hear it, “You need to come with me now. You’ve done all that you can.”

Your hands are freezing from the wet and the rain but, still, you manage to lift the boys head off of your lap and gently place it down on the deck. You make the sign of the cross, reflect in silence for a second, then sniffle and try to stand up. The weight of the young man on your lap coupled with the cold of the rain has numbed your legs and you stumble. Two strong hands easily catch you, one by your waist and the other softly taking your hand. Weakly, you look up at the lieutenant as he takes your arm and loops it around his own waist, helping you to walk. He’s looking up at his men, not at you. “Get rid of this mess and await orders from the Capitán,” he orders. Then he escorts you toward your room. 

This is not the first time that Guillermo had shown you to your room. He remembers that day—your cheeks rosy and your eyes full of life. As he helps you down the steps, he risks a glance and finds your expression devoid of any emotion. He doesn’t expect it to hurt him like it does. 

He’s basically carrying you before he sets you down on the edge of your bed. And though its improper, he goes over to your dresser and begins to look for some dry clothes. He can’t contain his thoughts any longer and so he says, with his back to you, “When I give you orders, I expect you to follow them. I know you and I are closer than we should be. I never intended for that to happen and I hope you don’t make me regret my fondness. You could have been killed out there and then what? What would I have done? It would have been my fault for leading you to believe that our friendship meant that my authority didn’t apply to you. And I would have had to live knowing that’d I’d killed you.” 

He turns around with a fresh nightgown in his hands. He has more to say—so much more—but he stops short when he sees you staring blankly down at your floorboards. Anger did not come as naturally to Guillermo as it did to Armando, but he could still be just as intimidating if he wanted to be. Right now, though? All he can do is lay the nightgown down beside you on the bed and kneel down to look at your face. 

_She’s so beautiful,_ he thinks to himself. _And brave, too._

He reaches and tilts your chin up so that you look at him, giving you a little smile to show you he’s no longer angry. Your wet hair falls back from your face and at last he can see you properly. _So beautiful._

“Listen to me,” he says. The tender tone he uses immediately makes you choke up with tears. The hand that comes to lightly caress the side of your face doesn’t help either and you let out a sob, leaning into his warm touch. “We need you, sister. We can’t lose you, do you understand? You’re too important.” 

“Guillermo, what about you?” Your voice is so hoarse, your eyes are red and puffy. He holds his breath as he waits for you to continue. You reach up and take his hand away from your face, cradling it against your chest so close that he can feel your heart beating. “What if you die and you don’t come back? What am I going to do then?”

He tries so desperately to remind himself of the boundaries. That getting closer to you and allowing himself to be vulnerable in situations like these will put you both in danger. But he hadn’t felt this way about someone . . . ever. His defenses are weak. 

Lesaro uses the hand your holding to pull you against him until both of you are on your knees on the floor. He cradles your head in the crook of his neck while you cry, his other hand still entwined with your own between the two of you. You’re holding on so tightly that he wonders if you’ll ever let go. It would be alright, he thinks as he rests his head against your own, if you never did. You’re so cold; he worries you’ll catch a fever if you don’t change clothes quickly. So, tragically, he must put this to an end. 

“Come now,” he says, “Let’s get you into bed.”

\--

Lesaro only leaves when you’re lucid and coherent enough to dress yourself. He ordered you to go to bed and regain your strength before heading up onto the deck. They were almost completely out of the storm by now. The men had gotten rid of the broken main yard and were throwing the body over the side of the ship when Lesaro stepped foot onto the quarterdeck. 

Salazar was exactly where Lesaro had left him. He looked mildly irritated, but that was normal. He shoots his lieutenant a curious look, raising an eyebrow. “What was all that ruckus about?”

“The novitiate came above deck and witnessed the death of one of the crew.” Lesaro says matter-of-factly. “I escorted her back to her room and reminded her of the orders I’d given her and the consequences of disobeying them.”

“Hm,” Salazar’s eyes narrow. Their interactions had been tense since last night. Lesaro had no reason to believe that Armando suspected him, but that didn’t stop a chill from running down his spine. “I see. Do I need to go down there and put her in her place?”

“No, you leave her alone,” he practically shouts. Officers who had been walking around stop to stare for a moment. Guillermo clears his voice, “Her insubordination was an insult to my authority. If you intervened, it would only undermine me further.”

Lesaro looks up to meet Salazar’s curious and amused expression. “. . . alright, then. If you say you’ve handled it, then I believe you.”

Guillermo inwardly sighs with relief. He tips his hat to the Capitán, heading back down the steps. But over his shoulder, the Capitán adds, “After all, you would never lie to me, would you Lesaro?”

The lieutenant hesitates with one boot inches above the next step. He can feel the pressure of Salazar’s stare on his back. He fakes a smile. “Of course not, Capitán. Allow me to go change into something dry then I will return to take over.” Then, he hastily makes his way down the steps and toward his quarters. 

He removes his wet jacket, tossing it over a chair to dry. His nerves are completely unraveled at this point. There was something about the way that Salazar spoke that led him to believe . . . well. It was unwise to speculate. Letting his mind run amuck would only make him behave suspiciously. 

Guillermo chuckles to himself after a minute. All of this was ridiculous. He’d never let his affections for someone get in the way of their sacred mission. Surely Armando knew that. And you were a nun, for God’s sake. You were off-limits in more ways that one. Even if you _were_ one of the most genuine, sincere, kind-hearted . . . lovely . . . pure . . . individuals he’d ever met . . . 

He slows down to a gradual halt while undoing the buttons on his undershirt, realization dawning on him like a storm appearing on the horizon.

As long as he wasn’t in love with you, he had nothing to worry about.

And yet, he was worried.


	9. Salazar//At Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salazar's Route//Ch.9//At Rest

Salazar decided not to admonish you for your insubordination. The fever you caught was punishment enough. And, truthfully, he wasn’t feeling up to it due to the fact that he had also caught the same fever. Most likely from embracing you while you were both wet and cold. 

You were bed-ridden after just three days, bundled up in multiple sheets and blankets, in a dream-like state of delusion. You’d only been getting up to receive meals delivered at the door by various cautious crew members. For the most part, you sneezed and leaked fluids and slept. And Armando should have been doing the exact same. Except that he wasn’t. 

No, he’d been pretending like it wasn’t as serious as it was. He’d stayed in his cabin like he had been doing for most of the voyage and, yes, he fell asleep at his desk more times than he’d admit. But for the most part, he forced himself to stay awake and command the ship according to schedule. Every morning he’d wake up and he’d brush his hair back into a tight bun, put on his uniform, and march out onto the deck to give the first orders. He had even timed himself—he could last up to fifteen minutes at a time without having to sit down. And this was all very normal procedure to him. He’d never shown weakness, never taken a day off, and that wasn’t about to start now. 

Inevitably, though, his valiant efforts became unsustainable and he found himself in a constant state of vertigo. 

So, sour with defeat, he gave command of the _Mary_ over to Lesaro and resigned himself to his cabin. He’d stayed in there for only one night before all of his officers appeared at his door and had made a proposition. 

“It’d be better if the two of you stayed in one place,” Magda had said, “to keep the sickness from spreading to the whole ship.”

“We won’t die of a disease but _she_ might,” said officer Chris, “Her cabin is small and dark, the rats are starting to get in. She could die if we don’t move her somewhere safer.”

“We could bring her bunk up here,” Nico offered, “It would only be for a little while.”

“It would help keep interactions to a minimum. As it is, we’re delivering food to her, then to you, three times a day. So six interactions could be reduced to three,” added Moss. “If we all get sick, even if we don’t die, it’ll slow us down even further.”

They were being incredibly bold and, frankly, speaking out of turn. But by that point, Salazar was more than a little delirious from his sickness so, just to get them to leave him alone, he had agreed. 

\--

You blink wearily, in a sort of daze. Santos looks down at you, the lower portion of his face covered by a bandana. “Good evening, sister,” he says with a wink, “You can go back to sleep, we’re just moving you someplace nicer.”

Indeed, he is carrying you. Though you’re still bundled up in blankets, you can feel the salty spray of ocean water and the light breeze from being outdoors. You go to say something back to him but your throat is too sore to speak, resulting in a weak croak. 

“Shh,” he says as he carefully walks you up the steps. “Pretend like I’m not here.”

Up the other set of stairs, Magda, Nico, and several lower-ranking sailors lift your bed. They’re struggling considerably by the sounds of it. You want to turn your head to look, to tell them not to hurt themselves, but a wave of exhaustion hits you and your eyes flutter then close. 

The next time you open them, you’re staring at a wooden ceiling—one much nicer than the one in your cabin—and the room seems to spin. Voices are all around you but despite hearing them, you can’t comprehend a word that they’re saying. Your brain feels like its on fire but the rest of your body shivers uncontrollably. You manage to look down and realize you’re lying on your bunk but there are no blankets to speak of. You’re on display in your sheer nightgown, exposed, while all around you men are saying: 

“Throw her blankets overboard.”

“Scrub and clean the floors and furniture of the cabin.”

“What about her clothes?”

“They’re likely just as bad as her blankets. We can always purchase her new robes and veils when we next make port.”

“And her bible? Her rosary?”

“. . . I feel less comfortable throwing those overboard. Leave them in the room; just don’t touch them.”

You know they are talking about you but are powerless to speak up. You don’t care if they throw you overboard at this point. You’d never felt so miserable. Where are your blankets? It’s so, so cold. You whimper softly, your teeth chattering. “Help,” you manage to whisper. 

Someone comes to your side in an instant with a thick blanket. They tuck you in, making sure the blanket is up to your chin. Then they turn and say, “Vacate the room. It’ll likely take a week before either of them are on their feet again. The Capitán is certain to recover but the sister . . . we’ll need to change her sheets often and keep her fed. Remember—if she dies . . . all of this will have been for nothing.”

You try to focus on the face of whoever is speaking. It’s clearly Lesaro—you can tell by the eyepatch and the style of his wig—but your mind can’t wrap around that fact. He looks down at you with concern etched in ever part of his tired face. You close your eyes. And when you open them again, he’s gone and the room is darker than before. 

“Guillermo?” you call out, your voice sounding like you’ve been swallowing glass. “Santos? Magda?”

You’re more lucid now than you’ve been in . . . how much time has passed? You aren’t sure. Your body is so weak. You try to lift your arm up to pull the blankets down, but it doesn’t obey you. Fear begins to creep upon you; do people who get this sick recover?

You needed to ask someone—anyone—how long you’d been in bed for. To you, it only felt like a day. 

So you try to sit up, mustering all of your strength just to be able to lift your head from the pillow. From this angle, you can see where you are and the sight is not any more comforting. How many times had you slept inside the Capitán’s quarters now? How shameful. 

That feeling of shame grows into mortification when you hear light snoring coming from the far corner where Salazar’s bed was located. If you had had any color left in your face, it would have drained instantly. You were sleeping in the Capitán’s quarters and _he was sleeping in here with you._

The thought instantly saps all of your remaining strength left and you’re unconscious again before your head even hits the pillow. 

\--

“Come on, now, sister. Just take a bite, please?” Nico begged you quietly. He had you supported against his arm, holding you up like you were a child while he tried to feed you pieces of biscuit. “Just a little bite?”

“Don’t treat her like she’s a toddler,” says Santos from somewhere in the distance. “If she won’t eat, then leave her alone until she does.”

“But she hasn’t eaten in hours,” says Nico, sounding more and more desperate. “She can’t get better if she doesn’t eat.”

“She’ll get better,” rebuffs Santos. “She’s as stubborn as the Capitán, remember? They’ll both be fine.”

\--

Armando jolts awake; he’s heard a concerning sound. He’d been in and out of dreams and dazes since he’d become bedridden. And now, even though he’s sitting up and looking around, he is in another feverish state. He knows that he heard a sound, even if his mind had been playing multiple tricks on him. More than once he had seen the Sparrow taunting him from his desk and, even more often than that, his mother sitting on the edge of his bed. 

But this was real, he was sure of it. He has much more strength than you despite the fact that you’d both been bedridden for days now. So he’s able to hoist himself off of the mattress and pull back the thick curtains concealing his bed from the rest of the cabin. 

The room is dark except for the small amount of moonlight trickling in from the stain glass windows. He squints around the room and finally spots your bunk near the opposite end of the cabin. Oddly enough you aren’t in your bed, you’re on the floor. Salazar stares in confusion for a second before his fever riddled brain deduces that you’ve fallen out of your bunk and need assistance. 

He grumbles as he makes his way across the room, leaning against objects to make it easier. In this state, he can’t remember the nickname he’s given you though he so badly wants to use it to taunt you. Something . . . small . . . and meek. 

That’s certainly how you looked now. Small, meek, and more than a little fragile. He stops dead in his tracks when he’s close enough to really get a look at you. He was a large and imposing man so most people appeared tiny and helpless in comparison. He thought you’d looked weak back then—but now? This frightened him. You were like a ghost of your former self, lying motionless on your side. Your skin lacked it’s healthy glow and your face—usually full of life and displaying your disdain for him—was sunken and dull. 

He wonders if he looks the same. On the verge of death. But he knows, even now, that death won’t come for him like it might come for you. 

So he kneels down and touches your shoulder, giving you a little shake. When you don’t respond, he slips a hand under your waist and begins to lift you up and back into the bed. You’re skin is so cold; he can feel you shivering under his fingertips. You let out a groan and before he notices it, you’re awake and you’ve tangled your fingers into his undershirt much like a frightened kitten. 

“Little mouse,” Ah, yes. That’s what he called you. “I am in no fit state to deal with you right now.” Speaking was difficult. Hell, everything was difficult. His headaches were back. He just wanted to go back to sleep. “Get up.”

You mumble something into his chest and he lets out a frustrated sigh, reaching up and tilting your face up to see him. Again, you say, “You’re so warm.”

“Yes. I have a fever.”

“I’m freezing.”

“You’re smaller than me, of course you are.” Once more, he tries to detangle your fingers from his shirt. But it appears as though you’ve saved up just enough strength to hold on. 

“Please,” you whine. He looks down at you and realizes that you’re barely conscious. “I don’t want to be cold anymore.”

A twinge of sympathy reaches his heart. He’d known true cold before. He’d felt it for years, unable to have the sun warm his skin. Perhaps it was the fever distorting his thoughts or the pity he felt for you or the fact that he was extraordinarily tired and just wanted to go back to bed—he decides to lift you up to the best of his abilities and carry you back towards his own bed. 

“Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you,” he mutters, limping across the room with your arm draped over his shoulder. “And don’t elbow me in your sleep or I’ll throw you to the tides.”

“Mmhmm,” you respond. 

He helps you lie down on the soft mattress, careful not to touch the bare skin of your legs while lifting them up and under the blankets. Inwardly, under the daze of his fever, he thinks— _when I vowed to sleep with her, this isn’t exactly what I had planned._

Salazar carefully crawls over you, trying hard to keep his balance and not touch you in any way. When at last he reaches the other side of his bed, he collapses with exhaustion as though he’d just taken down an entire fleet of ships on his own. He’s panting, lying on his back, trying to recollect his thoughts when he feels you shift beside him. Before he can react, you’ve snuggled up to him, snaking both of your arms around his forearm. 

“No, no, no,” he reprimands you like you’re a child. He’s spent all his energy for the night and can’t find enough to push you away. “Don’t you start doing that.”

You’re comfortable now, nuzzling your face into his sleeve. And he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. 

“Fine. Just this once.”

\--

The morning comes, bringing with it bright and new light from the stained glass window. You wake up to the sound of waves slapping gently against the sides of the _Mary_ , a sound that you’ve grown used to over time. This morning feels different somehow. You feel better than you have in a while; your head is clearer and your muscles feel stronger. Not only that, but your skin isn’t freezing anymore. In fact, you’re quite warm—

\--you tense up. You’re so warm because there’s someone holding you, pressed against your back. Two arms have encircled you as you lay on your side. You can feel soft, hot breath on your neck, blowing your hair and tickling the skin. 

You’ve never been in a position like this. Never been so close to someone in such a vulnerable and personal way. He’s breathing steadily, snoring lightly, still asleep. And you understand all at once that it must be the Capitán. You recall the events from last night, though most of it is in a haze, and you can’t believe that this has happened. 

Tentatively, you try to lift his heavy arm from around your waist. You needed to get up and back to your own bed before he wakes up and—

“Good morning, Little Mouse,” he breathes against your neck. “Feeling better, are we?”

You flinch and hold back a yelp of surprise. You can’t move—the only option was to turn and face him and you certainly are not about to do that. So you lay there, rigid and motionless, waiting for something to change. 

“I still feel like hell,” he says lazily. His lips brush against your skin when he talks, sending a shiver all the way to your toes. “So if you don’t mind, I’m going back to sleep.”

He starts to snuggle against you again and it seems you have no other option. You couldn’t just let him get comfortable again. Something needed to change. You turn around quickly, facing him on your opposite side. Immediately you regret this decision. 

In your foggy memory, you remember that he was definitely wearing more clothes the night before. But now, from the waist up, he was completely bare. You’d seen his naked chest once before but it had been full of stab wounds and not nearly as . . . appealing. Before your eyes drift too low, you quickly say, “I’m so sorry, Capitán. This is not the proper conduct that you should expect of me—I shouldn’t have ever allowed—I’m very embarrassed. I promised you that I would change your mind about me and yet I have—,”

“Shh, slow down.” He places a hand on your shoulder and gently guides you back to your pillow. You oblige him somewhat, but only because you’re still a little dazed. He, too, looks like he’s still suffering from the fever. His skin is flushed and a light sweat lingers on his brow. His hair is down—you’ve never seen it like this before. It pools at his shoulders and curls near the ends. You fight the urge to reach out and run your fingers through it. “It’s fine. This was my idea. You’re not at fault, sister. You said you were cold and I was too feverish to think straight. I don’t think you could have warmed yourself up enough even with your thousands of blankets. So don’t fret.”

“Even so,” you mumble, freely studying his handsome features while his eyes are closed. He opens them when you speak and stares at you calmly, waiting. Your heart flutters. “I should get up and go back to my bed now.”

“Alright then, if you wish.” He doesn’t break eye contact with you. He’s so close. You remember sleeping in this bed without him and how his smell was a faint, comforting presence. Now, it was intoxicating. This was the first—and maybe the last—time you’d ever lie next to a man in his bed. And while it was a sin to make love, this was different. This was more innocent. And, frankly, you didn’t want to leave. 

“. . . well, I’m still a little weak.” You lower your gaze, studying shiny scars on his collar bone instead. “So if it’s really alright . . . I’ll just stay here.”

You dare to look up at him. He’s smiling down at you—not a wicked smile or a smug smile. But a comfortable, a peaceful smile. And for the first time since you’d met him, you started to think, _“What if he kissed me?”_

Blood rushes to your cheeks and without thinking you bury your face into his bare collarbone. Before you can even realize what you’ve done, you hear him chuckle to himself, then feel him pull the covers up over you. Once more, his strong arms drape over your waist and he pulls you tight against him. 

He’s so, so warm. He rests his chin against the crown of your head and sighs, ready to slip back into sleep. And you wait until you hear him begin to snore before you dare to reach up and run your fingers along the shiny scars. 

\--

Lesaro stretches, feeling his spine pop with each movement. He’s been standing at the helm for a couple of hours, having watched the sun rise over horizon. Halfway through a yawn, he signals Officer Chris over to the wheel and excuses himself to go check on you and the Capitán. 

He was still incredibly worried. Salazar would easily recover, of that he was sure. He’d seen that man come back from much worse than a common fever. But you? You were so . . . well, human. And people without curses usually didn’t last through something so serious. 

His worry quickly turns into . . . something else at the sight he sees before him. 

When you hadn’t been in your bed, he’d panicked. At first he thought you might have wondered off in a daze halfway through the night. But then he rationalized that one of the officers on duty would have found you. So that only left one other option. And Lesaro had stood there, in the middle of the Capitán’s quarters, debating whether or not to check. In the end, he had mustered up his courage and pulled back the curtains in front of the Capitán’s bed and that’s where he’d found you. In Salazar’s arms. 

He’d held his breath and stared for a moment. Then, without a word, he quietly exited the room. Officer Chris asked him what was wrong but Lesaro had waved him off and returned to the helm. 

So the Capitán was serious. He was going to lead you to sin just to use it against you. He hadn’t put Salazar above such an act, especially after the man had come right out and stated his intentions. 

But he hadn’t expected you to . . . 

It didn’t matter. Lesaro knew the risks of getting too close to you. And if this is what you wanted, what would make you happiest, then he would live with it.  
His grip tightens on the wheel. 

But he would not allow Armando to hurt you.


	10. Lesaro//At Rest

Lesaro had every intention of giving you a proper punishment for your insubordination. Obviously he couldn’t treat you like he treated the crew—with back-breaking labor and demotions. And he also couldn’t just let it go and sweep it under the rug. 

The universe ultimately decided your punishment for him—in the form of a fever had you bedridden within three days. And, since your disobedience was a biproduct of his own weakness, fate decided that he, too, should become ill. 

And the punishment certainly fit the crime. 

One good thing about being a ghost—and there were very few good things—was that he never felt pain or exhaustion. And when he first felt pain at the bottom of the ocean, when he’d nearly drowned, it had been exhilarating. But this wasn’t like that. This was hell. 

He was a hard worker. He’d always had been. He’d been born to a fairly well-to-do noble family with a history of high-ranking military men. It was how he’d been raised to be. Modest. Humble. Loyal. So when he realized that he was sick, he had come forward with this information to the Capitán. He’d made it clear that he had no intention of letting this affect his work ethic. 

But Armando had said “Nonsense. We’re still another week away from catching up to the informant. Rest and regain your health.”

This was not the answer that Lesaro had been expecting. At all. Salazar made the crew scrub the floors of the decrepit _Mary_ when she was nothing but a floating wreckage. He’d drilled them on proper uniform and upkeep when they’d been missing limbs and entire halves of their bodies. So for him to excuse this . . . of all things . . . it did very little to dissuade Guillermo’s anxiety. 

He couldn’t worry about that for too long. His health went from “tolerable” to “agonizing” within hours. He retired to his cabin after giving a final set of orders to the rest of the officers—

“Make sure you change the sister’s sheets every other day. Keep her well-fed. Don’t go more than half a day without checking on her.”

Then he promptly collapsed. 

He was not asleep for too long. Within hours, a portion of the Officers had come knocking at his door to make a bold proposition. One that they certainly hadn’t come up with on their own. Even through the daze of a fever, Lesaro could sense that Salazar had something to do with this. 

“It’d be better if the two of you stayed in one place,” Magda had said, “to keep the sickness from spreading to the whole ship.”

“We won’t die of a disease but _she_ might,” said officer Chris, “Her cabin is small and dark, the rats are starting to get in. She could die if we don’t move her somewhere safer.”

“We could bring her bunk up here,” Nico offered, “It would only be for a little while.”

“It would help keep interactions to a minimum. As it is, we’re delivering food to her, then to you, three times a day. So six interactions could be reduced to three,” added Moss. “If we all get sick, even if we don’t die, it’ll slow us down even further.”

It was inappropriate. Ridiculous even. And had he been in any proper state of mind, he would have contested. But he was too far gone by this point and suspected that these orders came from the Capitán himself. So he conceded. 

\--

You wake to the sound of seagulls in the sky and the pleasant spray of salt water on your face. The sun shines down on you but you can barely feel its warmth. You’re moving but you’re not. 

Santos looks down at you, the lower portion of his face covered by a bandana. “Good evening, sister,” he says with a wink, “You can go back to sleep, we’re just moving you someplace nicer.”

Indeed, he is carrying you. Though you’re still bundled up in blankets, you can feel the salty spray of ocean water and the light breeze from being outdoors. You go to say something back to him but your throat is too sore to speak, resulting in a weak croak. 

“Shh,” he says as he carefully walks down a set of stairs. “Pretend like I’m not here.”

Behind him, Magda, Nico, and several lower-ranking sailors try to carry your bed down the narrow stairway. They’re struggling considerably by the sounds of it. You want to turn your head to look, to tell them not to hurt themselves, but a wave of exhaustion hits you and your eyes flutter then close. 

The next time you open them, you’re staring at a wooden ceiling—one very similar to the one in your cabin—and the room seems to spin. Voices are all around you but despite hearing them, you can’t comprehend a word that they’re saying. Your brain feels like its on fire but the rest of your body shivers uncontrollably. You manage to look down and realize you’re lying on your bunk but there are no blankets to speak of. You’re on display in your sheer nightgown, exposed, while all around you men are saying: 

“Throw her blankets overboard.”

“Scrub and clean the floors and furniture of the cabin.”

“What about her clothes?”

“They’re likely just as bad as her blankets. We can always purchase her new robes and veils when we next make port.”

“And her bible? Her rosary?”

“. . . I feel less comfortable throwing those overboard. Leave them in the room; just don’t touch them.”

You know they are talking about you but are powerless to speak up. You don’t care if they throw _you_ overboard at this point. You’d never felt so miserable. Where are your blankets? It’s so, so cold. You whimper softly, your teeth chattering. “Help,” you manage to whisper. 

At first, no one responds. Then someone finally says in a deep voice, “Get her a blanket, Officer.” Someone comes to your side in an instant with a thick blanket. They drape it over you carefully, trying not to touch you. Then the deep voice says, “Nothing more to see here. It’ll likely take a week before either of them are on their feet again. Lieutenant Lesaro is certain to recover but the sister . . . well. Just try to keep her alive, will you? Change her sheets. Feed her regularly. Check on her.”

You tilt your head and try to focus on the face of whoever is speaking. It’s clearly Salazar—you can tell by the rigid way he’s standing with his arms folded behind his back—but your mind can’t wrap around that fact. He looks down at you and you think, for a split second, that he appears concerned. You close your eyes. And when you open them again, he’s gone and the room is darker than before. 

“Capitán?” you call out, your voice sounding like you’ve been swallowing glass. “Santos? Magda?”

You’re more lucid now than you’ve been in . . . how much time has passed? You aren’t sure. Your body is so weak. You try to lift your arm up to pull the blankets down, but it doesn’t obey you. Fear begins to creep upon you; do people who get this sick recover?

You needed to ask someone—anyone—how long you’d been in bed for. To you, it only felt like a day. 

So you try to sit up, mustering all of your strength just to be able to lift your head from the pillow. From this angle, you can see where you are and the sight confuses you. You’ve never been in this room before—where are you? 

Your confusion morphs into mortification when you hear someone cough from across the room. With great effort, you crane your head to the side to catch a glimpse. Though your vision spins, you can see another bunk by the wall where someone is sleeping. If you had had any color left in your face, it would have drained instantly. Someone was _sleeping in here with you._

The thought instantly saps all of your remaining strength left and you’re unconscious again before your head even hits the pillow. 

\--

“Come on, now, sister. Just take a bite, please?” Nico begged you quietly. He had you supported against his arm, holding you up like you were a child while he tried to feed you pieces of biscuit. “Just a little bite?”

“Don’t treat her like she’s a toddler,” says Santos from somewhere in the distance. “If she won’t eat, then leave her alone until she does.”

“But she hasn’t eaten in hours,” says Nico, sounding more and more desperate. “She can’t get better if she doesn’t eat.”

“She’ll get better,” rebuffs Santos. “She’s stubborn, remember? They’ll both be fine.”

\--

Lesaro bolts upright in bed, his heart beating out of his chest. Even through his feverish daze, he had heard a concerning sound. It’s too dark in his cabin to see anything so he sits there, confused and exhausted, and waits to hear it again. Instead, he hears soft, weak breathing. 

He wonders, with his fever-riddled brain, if he is hallucinating it. His dreams had been especially incomprehensible and seemed to blur with reality here and there. But eventually, after sitting and staring into the darkness for an unknown length of time, he remembers that you are in here with him. 

His voice is sore when he calls out your name. No response. His body is screaming for him to lie back down—he’s freezing and his head throbs painfully. But the part of him that can still think straight urges him to investigate further. 

So, shakily, he stands up from his bunk and reaches fumbles around in the dark, using the wall to guide him. Luckily, the cabin was fairly compact and small and he trips over you in no time at all.

You’re on the floor, obviously, and now so is he. He curses on impact and is grateful that the rest of his senses are so numb that he cannot feel any other pain. What were you doing on the floor, though? Had you fallen out of bed? He reaches out for you in the dark, his eyes finally adjusting to the thin stream of light coming from the portside window. You are lying on your side, curled up, shivering violently. Your eyes are closed and you make pitiful little whimpering sounds. 

When he thinks of you, he thinks of warmth and life. Of hot Spanish days sitting under palm trees, eating baked goods. But now, with your thinning cheeks and your sweat-covered brow, you looked on the verge of death. And he had seen plenty of death. He touches your shoulders, beginning to panic, and shakes you softly while calling out to you.

“Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” He quickly realizes you’re not as conscious as he is. “Let’s get you back in bed. It’s freezing in here.”

As he starts to lift you up off of the floor, you seem to finally wake up. Your eyes open and when you see him, you gasp and cling to his nightshirt. In no time at all, you’ve used what little strength you have to wrap your arms around him, holding onto him like your life depended on it. 

“What are you—,”

“Lesaro, thank God,” your voice is so hoarse from misuse. It trembles as you speak. “I-I’m so cold. I can’t st-stop shaking.” 

This was true. You were quivering so hard that he could hear your teeth chattering. Your skin was ice cold beneath the thin nightgown, colder than his own. It terrified him; you shouldn’t be so cold, like a corpse. He wastes no time wrapping his arms around you to try and help. 

“I’m scared,” you whisper against his chest. “Am I dying?”

No. He had been through enough, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he suffered plenty? You were the first good thing to have happened to him in decades. No, you would not die. 

He picks you up without an answer, finding strength that he didn’t know was still in him, and carries you to his own bed. Like porcelain, he lays you down on the side closest to the wall. He would apologize to you in the morning when he woke up next to your smiling face. Until then, he knew what he needed to do. 

Your nightgown was already thin enough, it could stay. But he slips his own night shirt over his head and lies down next to you, pulling you against him. Then, in one swift motion, he pulls the blankets all around the two of you, making sure to cover you completely. 

You’re still shaking, but you instinctively shuffle closer to him for warmth. He can feel his energy slipping away as he wraps his arms around you and tucks your head under his chin. He thinks you fit so nicely up against him, the last bit of his consciousness starting to fade. He had imagined holding you like this before, in secret. If the circumstances weren’t so dire, he might have mustered a smile. 

Then again, he might not have had the strength for even that. He closes his eyes. 

\--

The morning comes, and with it, your first clear thought in days. 

Unfortunately, it is accompanied by confused panic. 

You lie completely still, nestled up against a man’s bare chest. And you cannot for the life of you remember how you got here. All you know is that you’re still fairly ill but not nearly as bad as you had been. And that you’re quite comfortable, aside from the debauchery and sin. 

For a long time, you contemplate looking up and seeing who it is. As it is, you can’t see anything but chest hair and clean white sheets filtering in the morning light. And, really, the scenery isn’t so bad. Whoever it is, they are very well-sculpted. Not too muscular, but just enough. You were never given the opportunity to . . . study anatomy like this before, so you take advantage of it in the moment. You can hear the voices of Mother Superior and God Himself telling you not to reach out and touch the dip of this man’s pelvic bone. After sensing your weakness, the Lord intervened in the form of the man stirring in his sleep. 

You remain motionless, waiting with bated breath as he starts to wake up. When he finally reaches up and pulls the sheets back, freeing you from the make-shift tent, you nearly yelp with surprise. 

“Good morning, sister,” Lesaro yawns, looking . . . well. Good. He looked very good. 

You had seen Lesaro out of uniform only once, during dinner one night. And even then he’d been wearing his wig and hat. But neither were present at the moment. His hair was a dark brown, almost black aside from the silver dotting his temples, and very curly. It looked wild, going in every which way. His chin had a bit of stubble growing on it, just enough to confirm that a bit of time had passed since you had both grown ill. 

Lesaro had always been kind of “stuffy” in your opinion; up-tight as all military men were. Now? Now he was . . . 

“How are you feeling this morning?” He asks, seeming to remember all at once. He presses the back of his palm to your forehead. “You look better already!”

“I’m fine!” Calm down. Too loud. You’re acting like the younger girls at the convent who squeal at the very mention of a kiss. “L-Lieutenant, what’s going on?”

He blinks, still hazy from sleep and sickness. “What do you mean?”

“What happened last night?” Your face is pitifully red. Lesaro would never, ever put you in a position where you might sin. So you knew that whatever had happened, it was necessary. 

Still, your heart races at the idea. 

The fog of sleep has finally disappeared, and all at once he looks incredibly embarrassed, stammering and sitting up in bed. He blankets fall farther down, exposing him even more, but he ignores it to quickly explain, “Nothing like that—I would never have—you fell out of bed and you were so cold and I thought—nevermind what I thought, I shouldn’t have put you in a position—I promise you nothing promiscuous happened—,”

You hold up your hands to calm him down, “No, no! I know you would never do something like that! You’re my good friend.” A smile spreads across your face. It was true, Lesaro was your dearest friend on the Silent Mary. You loved all of the boys equally but Lesaro was different. He always would be near and dear to your heart. 

This seems to relax his nerves a bit. He settles back down in bed, just a little. 

“It’s alright,” you say. You daringly reach out and place a hand on his bare shoulder. Muscular. Toned. Not at all what you expected. “You did the right thing. I’m still a little cold. Maybe we could stay here for just a little longer?”

He looks down at you with an expression that is completely foreign to you. All you know is that it makes butterflies flutter in your stomach. 

“. . . well, if you’re sure.”

“I trust you, Guillermo.” you say, desperate to rest your head against his chest again. Patience. 

That seems to do the trick. He sighs, and shimmies back under the covers. You fake a shiver and draw closer to him, resting your cheek against his shoulder. This might be the only time you’d ever lie down beside a man in your entire life. And though you had a mission here—one that you took very seriously—you couldn’t help yourself. Something about him felt like home, like comfort and security. You place a timid hand on his chest. He places his own on top of yours, where it belonged.

Just this once. Then never again. 

\--

Salazar leans against the wall of the stairwell, one boot crossed over the other as he reclined. He listens to your conversation, though a bit muffled, and smiles to himself. 

“I trust you, Guillermo.”

That’s all he needed to hear. Satisfied, he quietly ascends the steps and exits out onto the deck, breathing in the morning air triumphantly. This wasn’t going exactly to plan, no, but it was coming together in a pleasantly unexpected way. If he couldn’t seduce you, then Lesaro could. 

Lesaro’s affection for you was clear now. He had lied to a life-long companion for you. Armando had known Guillermo for almost his entire life. The man had lost an eye for him. But he had lied all the same. 

Still, Armando knew that if it came down to it, Lesaro would chose loyalty over you every time. So, yes, the plan had changed a bit. 

But it could still work.


	11. Salazar// The Beacon

The _Mary_ had caught up with the informant who had eluded them some time ago. For this battle, you were in Salazar’s chambers from the very start—as per his orders. The door was barricaded properly this time with a large piece of oak that slid into two metal prongs. You also weren’t alone this time; Officer Magda stood guard by the door with his rifle in hand and his rapier at his side. He wasn’t the only one well equipped; Salazar had given you a dagger to defend yourself with. It was the length of your forearm, razor then, and decorated with elaborate etchings on the blade. You squeezed the gold encrusted hilt until the carved design became imprinted onto your palm. You prayed you would not have to use it. 

Officer Magda did not speak to you. He was usually one of the crew’s chief chatterboxes, second only to Officer Moss, and enjoyed polite conversation. Even now, over a month since you’d boarded the _Mary_ , he would come to you to talk—seeking solace of any kind after the years he had spent cursed. But during this battle, while on duty, he was strictly professional and ready to die at a moments notice. 

From the sounds of it, this fight was going much better than their last. Salazar had had them running drills day in and day out when time permitted it. The days leading to this battle were full of sweat and sparring; they were determined to regain their pride. 

Cannons fired, twenty-four at once, and soon after you can hear explosions on the open sea. The _Mary_ was up against more than one ship here, and she was dominating. Whatever hesitation the crew experienced during their first fight was gone, replaced by muscle memory and newfound spirit. 

It was over in no time at all. And when you are finally permitted to leave the Capitán’s quarters and step out onto the quarterdeck, you can see a clear difference. The Mary is pristine aside from a few bits of splintered wood. She has taken next to no damage at all. And the men, with their uniforms unwrinkled and their boots shining without the smear of blood, apparently had no reason to draw their swords. 

On the open ocean, at all sides of the Spanish ship, fire and devastation circled like a halo. Little did you know you were lucky not to be on deck when the informant was questioned and soon after killed. Still, you glance over the railing and blanch upon seeing the floating carcasses as they slowly sink under the dark waves. You had grown accustomed to the smell of blood in your time here, but you had yet to smell human flesh burning as flaming ships were swallowed by the sea. These sights and smells, accompanied by the cheerful gloating of the crew all around you, were almost too much to handle at once. 

Yes, you are relieved that the men were victorious. But you could not celebrate alongside them.

You bow your head, just enough that none of them might notice, and you pray for the men and women who have died here today. 

“Showing mercy?” The Capitán steps forward to stand next to you. He’s glistening with sweat and pride and when he looks down at you, its clear that this victory has left him hungry for more. He is a pleasant sight at this moment; his confidence was contagious. If he was pleased with the outcome of this battle, then you trusted that the death and destruction had a higher purpose. 

Still. 

“Just a little,” you tell him honestly, “Am I being too kind?”

He chuckles, looking out over the burning ocean. There is hunger in his eyes, determination. And though it should probably scare you, it doesn’t. You smile, just a little. 

“You’re always too kind,” he tells you. “But not many people are so pure of heart. It is refreshing, eh?”

Salazar smirks lopsidedly in a rare instance of playfulness. He even goes so far as to nudge you with his elbow, emphasizing that he is only teasing you, before folding both hands behind his back. 

“Well, thank you.” Your smile falls as you look back to the water. The bodies have sunk far below the surface. “I know these people are inherently sinful, but I cannot hate them as you do. They are all children of God, so I must weep for them as they have gone astray. For that, I apologize.”

His expression hardens just a tad, but he is not angry with you. He places his hands on the railing, caressing the smooth and polished wood. After some time, he says, “But can you forgive them for their sins? When you weep for them, do you also weep for those they have murdered and raped and plundered? Do you pray for them as long as you pray for their victims?”

You stare at each other for a long pause. He searches your eyes like he’s looking for answers while all you can do is think about Mother Superior and her words on this particular conundrum.

She’d say, _“All of God’s children are born sinful. It is our duty to dedicate ourselves to our faith so that we may rise above our origins. So yes, pray for the sinners because it is almost always too late for them to help themselves.”_

But, really, it wasn’t that simple was it? 

“I think,” you begin, your voice so quiet that he must crane in closer to hear you. “It is not within mortal understanding to forgive someone of all their mistakes. If I were to ask you to tell me all of your sins, could you? Or would you? It’s impossible, you don’t even know all that you’ve done wrong. So no, I can’t forgive them but I do weep for them. Because, in the end, their greatest mistake was being human and in that regard, I’m no different.”

“That’s not true.” 

You’re alarmed by the harshness in his tone. He’s got one hand on the railing and the other clenched at his side as he faces you. He’s turned without you even noticing and now he’s towering over you with such a complicated yet distinctly passionate expression on his handsome face. 

“What—?”

“You aren’t at all like them,” he says with intensity. He even shakes a little as he speaks. “Those people . . . no, those _pirates_ are a scourge on our world. You? You could never dream of being as selfish or as ruthless as these creatures. You, as merciful and pure as you are, are so far above them that they can never touch you. They don’t know kindness, they don’t know dedication or loyalty or—,” 

He stops himself, his eyes glinting gold. You can only stare at him with your lips parted and a hand on your chest, blinking and processing what he’s said. More than a little stunned, you place a hand on his arm as he returns to his previous position hunched over the railing. It takes him nearly fifteen seconds to completely collect himself. 

“Are you alright?” you whisper to him. “I’m starting to worry about you, Capitán.”

He starts to chuckle and the sound, once so terrifying, is a relief to hear now. Salazar tilts his head to look at you and the adrenaline he’d had during the fight has clearly left him. He looks in need of a nap. 

“Will you join me for dinner again, Little Mouse?”

“Wh—tonight?”

“No, next week.” He jokes to the best of his ability, a grin plastered on his face. “Yes, of course tonight.”

\--

Lesaro watches from his position at the helm. He can only catch sly glances at the two of you from his spot; it requires him to turn his head so that his one good eye can see. But he has seen enough, in the end.

Armando was going to try and seduce you tonight. That much was certain. Guillermo had been around the Capitán long enough to know when he was actively pursuing someone. In their youth, Salazar hardly bothered with courtship. But on nights where he had the time and was interested, he could wrangle several young men and women in a matter of hours. He had worked seduction down to a science. And Lesaro could spot it happening from a mile away. 

And it was happening now, before his very eyes. To someone he cared about very much. 

He watches you agree to dinner then depart back to your cabin. Then he waits patiently for Salazar to finish giving orders. It had been a very successful day and under normal circumstances Lesaro would be celebrating with the other men. Several of the officers eyed him with curiosity when he didn’t join in on the revelry as he so often liked to. 

“Take the helm, will you?” He had murmured to Officer Chris in a sort of daze. The younger man did as he was told without a word, only giving him a quick odd look. 

Then Lesaro heads to your room.

\--

You sift through the new clothes the Capitán had bought you. He had sent Moss and Santos to a local convent with a letter and a sack of coin and they had come back with a standard habit that was, admittedly, a size too small and quite tight. You’d been wearing them anyway as it was required of you to do so. But maybe you could find at least some variation that was more comfortable. 

Part of you wishes you could wear something nice. Something red or green or blue with little bits of lace at the sleeves and heavy skirts. But you knew the Capitán preferred you in your uniform. Not that that mattered. But still. 

A knock comes at your door and you hurry to push your clothing back into the dresser. Had the Capitán come back to speak to you? An excited smile pulls at the corners of your mouth; he’d only visited your room once before and you still lied awake at night replaying that memory in your head. 

“Coming!” you call as you smoothen your skirts and fix your veil. 

When you open the door to find Lesaro, you face falls ever so slightly and he takes notice of it. Keen as ever. 

“Lieutenant,” you say, putting on your best smile. “Congratulations are in order! Excellent job today. As always.”

Guillermo hesitates at first but eventually returns the expression. “Thank you, sister. I’m pleased with everyone’s performance. And that you had a safer experience this time around.”

A weak laugh escapes you against your will. “Yes, as am I.”

There is a moment of awkward silence. It was clear from the beginning that Lesaro had come down here with purpose in order to say something. But now that a conversation has been started, he’s struggling to find the words again. He furrows his brow, staring off to the side. 

You try to help him along by saying, “Is there anything I can do for you, Guillermo?”

At the sound of his name, he looks up at you with such . . . longing in his eyes. You draw your breath, unable to break his line of sight. 

He knows what he needs to say to you. He needs to warn you as quickly and concisely as he can. For the sake of your faith and your very life. For the sake of the heartbreak you might go through once its all said and done. 

But instead, he whispers, “I love you.”

The _Mary_ sways gently with the tide, unaffected. You are certain that you’ve misheard him. He goes on to say, “Forgive me. I know it is inappropriate for me to not only have these feelings but to confront you with them. I promise you that I have no intention to act upon them. I just . . . had to let you know.”

You feel your entire chest clench tight, like someone was squeezing the life out of you. What were you supposed to say to this? No one had ever confessed their feelings for you—no one had dared to. But this man, this incredibly wonderful man, had done just that and now you were left stunned. 

Lesaro is left suffocating in the silence so you must come to his rescue eventually. Even if what you had to say wasn’t what he wanted to hear. 

“I don’t know what to say,” you admit quietly. “But . . . you know that we, that _I_ , can’t. I’m so sorry—,”

He smiles sadly, raising a hand to quiet you. Tears are starting to burn at the corners of your eyes and you fight hard against them. He looks so calm, so at peace with it all. And somehow that hurts so much more. 

“Good,” he says simply. “I’m glad you would never sacrifice your faith for a silly old man. I never expected you to. I just needed to confess my sins, sister. After this, I will be strictly professional.” He looks ready to take his leave but falters at the door. You want so badly to tell him what he wants to hear, to say that you love him too. But you can’t. Because you don’t. 

He places his hands on your shoulders, his touch light as a feather, and he leans in to place a gentle kiss on your cheek. It lasts only for a fraction of a second then he’s tipping his hat to you and making his way back up the stairs. 

\--

You were in no mood to eat by the time that Officer Nico came to fetch you. He observes your puffy red eyes with a palpable nervous energy and at first says nothing, merely shifting from one foot to the other in your doorway. Ultimately he works up the courage to say, “You look nice.”

This small act of kindness is enough to make you smile, if not weakly. 

Up on the quarterdeck, Lesaro is no where to be found. For that, you are at least somewhat grateful. How could you ever face him again?

“The Capitán is already waiting for you inside,” says Officer Nico, gesturing to the door with an extended arm. 

“Thank you, officer.” You wave him goodbye and take a deep breath before opening the door and letting yourself in. 

The room is warm with candlelight and the heat of food. It is not unlike the first time you had dinner with Salazar. Though this time around, he does not sit at his desk and hardly acknowledge you. No, he is standing at the table, pouring himself a glass of wine. And when you enter, he says with his back turned, “They gifted me with all of this alcohol when I arrived in the capital. I detest wine, but its hard to turn away gifts from the King, eh? I’m finally nearly the end of my cache.” 

He pops the cork back into place, sets the bottle down, and turns eagerly to greet you. The smile on his face falls when he sees your swollen complexion. 

“Little Mouse?” He gives you this look, like a father scolding their child. “Didn’t we talk about weeping for those degenerate pirates?” 

You let out a little laugh and try to put on a brave face. You couldn’t let him know what had really happened. “Yes, I know. I just can’t help it.”

Salazar holds his gaze for a moment, examining you closely. In the end he exhales through his nose and smirks, gesturing for you to take your seat. The two of you eat dinner in moderate silence for you can hear he crew singing victory shanties from down below and the sound is enjoyable. Before the curse was broken, Salazar would not have tolerated such foolhardy behavior. But things had changed, if only a little. He will let them have these fleeting moments of merriment; they had earned them. 

He finishes his wine with one final swig and leans back in his chair, watching you while you finish your plate. Things certainly had changed. Perhaps Lesaro was right after all. You certainly were changing the old Capitán whether or not he was completely aware of it. 

“Would you like to step outside and listen?” He asks you as he reclines against one arm rest. “It’s a clear sky tonight.”

Dabbing your mouth with a napkin, you raise your eyebrows up at him. “You like to listen to them sing?”

“Eh,” he shrugs and begins to stand up. “They aren’t as good as they think they are. But entertainment is entertainment.”

Salazar offers you his arm and you waver. He has been so kind to you recently—a hard juxtaposition to how he had treated you at the start. It was starting to . . . do things to you. Make you experience certain feelings that were inappropriate for a nun to have. Every night since you woke up in his arms you craved to sneak back into his room and slip under the blankets with him. And ever night you scolded yourself for your own weakness. This wasn’t about you; this was about their righteous cause. You promised Lesaro you would not fail them . . . 

The thought of the lieutenant brings with it a wave of guilt and you look away from the Capitán and his inviting hand. 

“I’m feeling a little tired,” you lie. You focus your attention on the elaborate embroidered napkin, running your thumb over the silky thread. “I must decline your offer. Perhaps some other time?”

There is nothing but silence coming from Salazar. It lasts so long that you are eventually forced to raise your head and look at him, praying that he is not angry. To your surprise, he is staring at you with a hint of concern; his brow is furrowed deeply and his lips are pressed thin while he thinks. Suddenly, he turns and pulls his seat up closer to you so that he can be on your level. 

He says, “Something is bothering my Little Mouse. Something she’s not telling me.”

You return to the tried-and-true method of staring hard at the napkin folded on your lap. A burn starts to ache at the back of your throat. It had been such a long day. You really were exhausted. “No, Capitán. I’m fine. Truly.”

“Don’t lie to me, sister.” He voice is stern and steady. At first he is patient, waiting for you to turn and look at him. Then he takes matters into his own hands and reaches up, grabbing your chin between his thumb and index finger. “Look at me, Mouse. And don’t lie to me, ever.”

This is a man who has commanded for a lifetime. And when he gives orders, everyone must obey. So you do as he says and you look at him and the tears start to build up until he’s a blurry shape in front of you. “Capitán,” you whimper, “I’m so sorry.”

Hot tears stream down your face and drip onto his hand where it still holds your chin. “What do you mean?” It is posed less like a question and more like a demand. Armando knows what you mean, but he must hear you say it. Every inch of his body is hot with anticipation. 

“They must have picked me for a reason,” you mumble. Your cheeks are darkening with embarrassment and you can hardly catch your breath. “They knew I wasn’t strong enough to do this. And they were right.”

“Why do you say that?” He whispers, pretending to be naïve. But his heart is racing like he’s in the middle of combat and his trousers feel tighter by the second. 

You think of Lesaro and his sad smile. You think of what you told him— _I can’t, I’m sorry_. And he probably thought you were just so dedicated to your mission that nothing as simple as romantic affection could deter you. But in reality, you were not so noble. You couldn’t love him, no. But not because of the right reasons. 

Salazar’s hand slides up your cheek, large and warm and calloused from years of fighting. His thumb wipes away a stray tear. Again, he asks you, “Why would you say that, Little Mouse?”

The only way to retain even an ounce of your honor was to simply tell him the truth and beg God and Salazar both for their forgiveness. 

“I have feelings for you,” you murmur, trying hard to maintain eye contact. “And I have for a while now. God knows I’ve tried to expel them from my mind but I cannot. I promise, they’re juvenile in nature. And I’m sure they’ll go away in time—so I’m begging you—please show me no mercy. Any punishment you see fit, I will endure. But I cannot withstand your kindness.”

Your eyes glisten like the moon on the ocean. A strand of your hair falls out from beneath your habit. Each shuddering breath causes your entire body to tremble. And as he stares, he is confused. At this point, he should be feeling victorious. He had successfully charmed you and seduced you; he had won and his plan had worked effortlessly. But he is not smug or arrogant in this moment no matter how hard he tries to summon those emotions. Instead, he is consumed by that not-so-familiar feeling that he’s been suppressing for days. The feeling he cannot name and cannot hold onto for more than a moment. Yet now it is prevalent and clearer than ever and he realizes it is something akin to real bliss. Not satisfaction like the kind that he feels when he’s murdered a crew of pirates and not enjoyment like the kind he feels when he envisions a better future. This sort of happiness hasn’t been felt in a long time; it is unsullied by violence or ambition. It simply is. 

“Oh, my Little Mouse,” he murmurs, leaning in closer to you. “It is I who hasn’t the strength to withstand _your_ kindness.” 

And he closes the gap. 

His lips are softer than you imagined them being and they move against your own with experience. Both hands are cupping your face, holding you steady but doing so with the lightest of touches. He tastes like wine and, indeed, it is intoxicating when he takes your lower lip between both of his own and deepens the kiss, tilting his head to the side to get a better angle. And where are your hands? You lost track of them for a moment and now they’re threading through his hair, messing up his prim and tidy appearance. At this point he’s on the edge of his seat. His erection is painfully obvious and he’s moments away from pulling you into his lap so that he can finally—finally—feel you against him. 

But you come to your senses before he has the chance. 

“What are you doing?” you stammer as you tear yourself away from him, stumbling to your feet and back-peddling until the back of your legs hit your chair. He’s still entranced with arousal, blinking at you dumbfoundedly as you make your way behind the chair, putting it between the two of you. Your face is flushed and he can see the evidence of your own arousal through the tightness of your robes. He shakes his head to clear it and directs his eyes upward to meet yours. 

“Forgive me,” he struggles at first to remember the proper words for moments like these. But he’s never had his tongue in a nun’s mouth before either, so it’s difficult. “Did I misread that?”

You cling to the chair, your eyes trailing downwards to the obvious tent in his trousers. You squeeze your thighs together. “No, I—I just told you . . . we can’t.”

“You haven’t taken your vows yet,” he says carefully. 

“What are you saying?! Listen to yourself!” you shout, growing more and more frustrated by the second. “You would throw away all of your hard work—the hard work of your crew—just for—just for—?!”

“You’re being too bold,” he warns you, pointing a finger in your direction. 

“No, I won’t let you. You’ve worked too hard, Armando. Your men have sacrificed so much for this dream . . . I will not ruin their lives, risk them being executed in Spain for a curse they can’t control, just because I am weak! I will not be anyone’s downfall, especially not yours. You have struggled so hard to regain their trust and their loyalty—you cannot forfeit it.” You’re shaking again but it is with anger, not sorrow. “Goodnight, Capitán.”

He can do nothing but watch as you gather your skirts and exit the cabin with grace. He had not . . . anticipated this. All human beings are burdened with selfish behaviors and wants. And even you, an angel among men, should not have been exempt from this. But again and again, every time he puts you to the test, he is proven wrong. And each time, he falls for you just a little bit more. So he sits at his dinner table and he stares blankly at the seat you’ve left behind. He could see it now. If he had admired you before tonight, he was absolutely in love with you now. With your resolve and dedication not only to yourself and your own morals but to his own? How could he not be? 

When did he lose sight of his original goals? When did it become just about killing _one specific_ pirate? And when exactly did he betray his men, consider them all expendable, just to get his revenge? Had he not learned his lesson at the bottom of the ocean when more than a dozen of them had drowned? The ones who had survived, even after he’d abandoned them, had found him and dragged him to shore. His leg had splintered upon hitting the anchor and it would not heal—serving as a constant reminder of what he had done. Madness still plagued him, shrouding his way to recovery. And you were like a beacon, guiding him back to the man he once was. 

He will follow you.


	12. Lesaro//The Proposition

The _Mary_ had caught up with the informant who had eluded them some time ago. For this battle, you were in Salazar’s chambers from the very start—as per his orders. The door was barricaded properly this time with a large piece of oak that slid into two metal prongs. You also weren’t alone this time; Officer Magda stood guard by the door with his rifle in hand and his rapier at his side. He wasn’t the only one well equipped; Capitán Salazar had given you a dagger to defend yourself with. It was the length of your forearm, razor thin, and decorated with elaborate etchings on the blade. You squeezed the gold encrusted hilt until the carved design became imprinted onto your palm. You prayed you would not have to use it. 

Officer Magda did not speak to you. He was usually one of the crew’s chief chatterboxes, second only to Officer Moss, and enjoyed polite conversation. Even now, over a month since you’d boarded the _Mary_ , he would come to you to talk—seeking solace of any kind after the years he had spent cursed. But during this battle, while on duty, he was strictly professional and ready to die at a moment’s notice. 

From the sounds of it, this fight was going much better than their last. Salazar had had them running drills day in and day out when time permitted it. The days leading to this battle were full of sweat and sparring; they were determined to regain their pride. 

Cannons fired, twenty-four at once, and soon after you can hear explosions on the open sea. The _Mary_ was up against more than one ship here, and she was dominating. Whatever hesitation the crew experienced during their first fight was gone, replaced by muscle memory and newfound spirit. 

It was over in no time at all. And when you are finally permitted to leave the Capitán’s quarters and step out onto the quarterdeck, you can see a clear difference. The _Mary_ is pristine aside from a few bits of splintered wood. She has taken next to no damage at all. And the men, with their uniforms unwrinkled and their boots shining without the smear of blood, apparently had no reason to draw their swords. 

On the open ocean, at all sides of the Spanish ship, fire and devastation circled like a halo. Little did you know you were lucky not to be on deck when the informant was questioned and soon after killed. Still, you glance over the railing and blanch upon seeing the floating carcasses as they slowly sink under the dark waves. You had grown accustomed to the smell of blood in your time here, but you had yet to smell human flesh burning as flaming ships were swallowed by the sea. These sights and smells, accompanied by the cheerful gloating of the crew all around you, were almost too much to handle at once. 

Yes, you are relieved that the men were victorious. But you could not celebrate alongside them.

You bow your head, just enough that none of them might notice, and you pray for the men and women who have died here today. 

“Showing mercy?” The Capitán steps forward to stand next to you. He’s glistening with sweat and pride and when he looks down at you, its clear that this victory has left him hungry for more. His presence does little to soothe your nerves; his confidence left a sour taste in your mouth. He was pleased with the outcome of this battle, believing whole-heartedly that this death and destruction had a higher purpose. 

You felt ill. 

“Just a little,” you tell him honestly, “Do you think I’m being too kind?”

He chuckles, looking out over the burning ocean. There is hunger in his eyes, determination. Sometimes you admired his ambition. But the cost of his satisfaction was too high. 

“You’re always too kind,” he tells you. “But I never expected you to pity these creatures. Did you not once consider their ‘lifestyle’ sinful?”

Salazar looks down at you with a feigned, tight smile. It’s clear that he does not approve of the sympathy you have chosen to bestow upon the fallen sailors today. You were in no mood to get into a moral debate with him.

“That’s right, yes.” You return his tense expression then cast your eyes back to the water. The bodies have fallen far below the surface. “I know these people are inherently sinful, but I cannot hate them as you do. They are all children of God, so I must weep for them as they have gone astray. For that, I apologize.”

His expression hardens. He places his hands on the railing, gripping the smooth and polished wood. After some time, he says, “But can you forgive them for their sins. When you weep for them, do you also weep for those they have murdered and raped and plundered? Do you pray for them as long as you pray for their victims?”

You stare at each other for a long pause. He searches your eyes like he’s looking for answers while all you can do is think about Mother Superior and her words on this particular conundrum.

She’d say, _“All of God’s children are born sinful. It is our duty to dedicate ourselves to our faith so that we may rise above our origins. So yes, pray for the sinners because it is almost always too late for them to help themselves.”_

But, really, it wasn’t that simple was it? 

“I think,” you begin, your voice so quiet that he must crane in closer to hear you. “It is not within mortal understanding to forgive someone of all their mistakes. If I were to ask you to tell me all of your sins, could you? Or would you? It’s impossible, you don’t even know all that you’ve done wrong. So no, I can’t forgive them but I do weep for them. Because, in the end, their greatest mistake was being human and in that regard, I’m no different.”

“Hm,” He regards you with a cold gaze. “Perhaps you aren’t any different.”

You’re alarmed by the harshness in his tone. For a fraction of a second, his lips twitch in a cruel smirk. But before you have time to process and respond, he has turned and started walking toward his cabin. Over his shoulder, he says, “Try not to waste any of your holy tears on these pirates, sister. That’s an order.”

\--

Lesaro watches from his position at the helm. He can only catch sly glances at the two of you from his spot; it requires him to turn his head so that his one good eye can see. But he has seen enough.

He could see that you were starting to get under Armando’s skin. That much was certain. Guillermo had been around the Capitán long enough to know when he was getting annoyed. Frustrated. But Armando was a sore loser and didn’t give up easily. Angering him now, as he was actively plotting against you, would only encourage him to try harder. 

Lesaro wasn’t sure what Salazar might do next; the Capitán hadn’t been open with his lieutenant ever since Lesaro had escorted you that day—and later lied to his face. Not knowing made it all so much worse. It wasn’t his place to intervene and actively work against his Capitán, but years of standing aside and letting Armando make mistakes had worn Guillermo thin. You were someone he cared about very much. You were worth the risk.

He watches you stare at Salazar’s departing form. You suddenly look over to him, making direct eye contact, and he can tell you were uneasy. With the subtle tilt of his head he suggests you go back to your room for the time being. You nod back to him, obliging his request. Lesaro waits until both you and the Capitán have cleared the deck before giving out final orders to the men. It had been a very successful day and under normal circumstances Lesaro would be celebrating with the other men. Several of the officers eyed him with curiosity when he didn’t join in on the revelry as he so often liked to. 

“Take the helm, will you?” He had murmured to Officer Chris, clearly distracted by his thoughts. The younger man did as he was told without a word, only giving him a quick odd look. 

Then Lesaro heads to your room.

\--

You pace around your room, full of nervous energy. For every step of progress you make toward gaining Capitán Salazar’s favor, you take two leaps backwards by mistake. You know the Capitán can’t do anything to you—rationally, you understand that. But it didn’t make him any less frightening.

One thing that did set your heart at ease was knowing that you had a confidant on board. Yes, the entirety of the crew was amicable, but none of them could compare to— 

A knock comes at your door and you hurry to make yourself decent. The Capitán had given Santos and Moss a letter and a sack of coin the last time the _Mary_ made port. He’d sent them to a local convent to request for new clothing since they’d thrown all of your old habits overboard. They’d come back with a standard habit that was, admittedly, a size too small and quite tight. You’d been wearing them anyway as it was required of you to do so. But they weren’t very comfortable.

“Coming!” you call as you smoothen your skirts and fix your veil. 

When you open the door to find Lesaro, relief washes over you and he takes notice of it. Keen as ever. 

“Lieutenant,” you say, beaming at him. “Congratulations are in order! Excellent job today. As always.”

Guillermo sways at first, dazed by your radiance, but eventually returns the smile. “Thank you, sister. I’m pleased with everyone’s performance. And that you had a safer experience this time around.”

A weak laugh escapes you against your will. “Yes, as am I.”

There is a moment of silence where you stare at each other contentedly. But Lesaro had come down here with purpose in order to say something. It was so damn hard for him to maintain his focus around you but he must warn you about his suspicions. Salazar’s willpower was not something to be taken lightly. 

You can tell he has something to say but can’t find the words. As enjoyable as it was to watch him bite his lip in concentration, you ask, “Did you need to tell me something, Guillermo?”

At the sound of his name, he looks up at you with such . . . longing in his eyes. You draw your breath, unable to break his line of sight. 

He knows what he needs to say to you. He needs to warn you as quickly and concisely as he can. For the sake of your faith and your very life. Lesaro had tremendous respect for you and the dedication you showed toward your mission. The last thing he wanted was for something to get in your way. So he would tell you to be on your guard, to be wary of those who would try to sabotage you.

Despite this he whispers, “I love you.”

The Mary sways gently with the tide, unaffected. You are certain that you’ve misheard him. He goes on to say, “Forgive me. I know it is inappropriate for me to not only have these feelings but to confront you with them. I promise you that I have no intention to act upon them. I just . . . had to let you know.”

You feel your entire chest clench tight, like someone was squeezing the life out of you. What were you supposed to say to this? No one had ever confessed their feelings for you—no one had dared to. But this man, this incredibly wonderful man, had done just that and now you were left stunned. 

Lesaro is suffocating in the silence so you must come to his rescue eventually. 

“Why would you tell me that?” you ask quietly. “. . . you know that we, that _I_ , can’t. So why would you—,”

He smiles sadly and shrugs. “I’m the greatest threat to your success here, sister. I just needed you to know that. To warn you.”

You shake your head silently, unblinking. You know what he is trying to do—burn the bridge he’s standing on so that you don’t have the choice to meet him halfway. He’s right to do that, isn’t he? Wasn’t he doing the right thing? Then why are you so upset?

Lesaro looks like he’s ready to leave but falters at the door, staring down at the floor absently. Eventually he places his hands on your shoulders, his touch light as a feather, and he leans in to place a gentle kiss on your cheek. The touch is enough to send goosebumps over your entire body. When he pulls away, he whispers against your ear, “I just . . . needed to do that. To get the thought of it out of my mind.”

Then he backs up and tips his hat to you, starting to head toward the steps. 

He is stopped as you grab ahold of his sleeve cuff, holding him in place. Lesaro looks down at your grasp, then up your arm until he meets your cautious gaze. His mouth opens to say something but no words come out. 

“That wasn’t . . .” you begin to say. Your voice cracks. You start again, “That wasn’t a real kiss. So . . . I don’t think it worked.”

He hardly notices that you’re pulling him back toward you; the last time he’d felt so weightless, he’d been a ghost. That seemed so long ago, now. 

You step out into the hallway to meet him, your back pressed up against the wooden wall. You have him directly in front of you again—so close that he’s not quite touching you but you can feel his body heat. Your heart races with adrenaline. “You want to be certain, right? Can’t . . . take any chances.” 

There is a single second of hesitation. Then you push up on your tippy-toes and kiss him once on the lips. Just a peck. Enough to just barely taste him before pulling back and staring up at him silently. Then in the next second, his hands cup your jawline and your own hands are buried in his uniform as he presses you hard against the wall. He’s kissing you again, then again and again while you paw at him hungrily. The slight stubble on his chin scratches you as he deepens the kiss. He’s pinned you against the wall where you can barely move, his entire body pressed flush against yours, and the evidence of his arousal is stiff against your hip. He moves his left leg between your thighs, applying pressure until you moan against his mouth. 

The sound knocks some sense into him. 

He attempts to untangle himself from you, muttering breathlessly, “No, no, sister. That’s enough.” Almost every night for weeks he had laid awake and allowed himself to imagine this exact moment. Not once did he think he’d actually get to touch you like this. 

“Why?” you mumble against his bruised lips. Your hands linger on his waistcoat, eager to get it off of him. 

“Sweet girl,” he cranes back to get a better look at you. “You know why.” 

Your face crinkles with dejection and you lower your head to hide your glistening eyes. Yes, you know why. It goes without saying but you say it anyway, “This isn’t fair.” 

Lesaro chuckles. You snap your head up to look at him, bewildered by the smile on his handsome face. How could he laugh at a moment like this? 

“I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck absently. “It’s just that . . . well. I didn’t think you felt the same way.”

If you were confused before, you were absolutely perplexed now. You reach up and cup his face in your hands, giving him an affectionate squeeze for good measure. “Of course I do. How could I not?”

His cheeks warm up beneath your touch. “I’m a bit older than you, after all. There are younger men aboard the Mary. I just assumed I was being too hopeful.”

What a fantastic fool he was. Its your turn to laugh, placing a small kiss onto his cheek. “I hardly think that matters. You were undead for twenty five years, Guille. I don’t think time applies to you.”

In a smooth and succinct motion, he pulls you into his arms and holds you tight. He smells like gunpowder and sea salt—scents that you now associate with ‘home.’ You wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his neck knowing that this wouldn’t last forever. 

“Will you come to my room tonight?”

A bolt of electricity runs through you. “Wh-what?”

“We need to talk this through and figure everything out.”

You lean back so that you can search his face for an explanation. He seems too calm. “What is there to discuss? . . . I thought you said we couldn’t do this.”

“Well, we _shouldn’t_.” He replies, glancing cautiously toward the steps leading to the deck. “But we’re going to be on this ship together for three years. Can you last that long without at least talking it over?”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” you admit. You bring your hands in front of you, nervously twirling your thumbs. ‘Talking it over’ sounded more like ‘reiterating the reasons why we shouldn’t do this.’ He was right to approach this rationally but that didn’t make you feel any better. 

“Then I’ll see you tonight?” Lesaro lowers himself a bit so that he can meet your eyeline. He offers you a reassuring smile but you can tell he’s just as trepidatious as you are. Obviously he was trying to soothe your concerns, being as thoughtful as ever. So you oblige him with a reassured nod. 

“I’ll wait until after dinner. That way no one will see me.”

“Good girl.” He pats your cheek affectionately. “Be careful.” 

Then he retreats up the stairs posthaste. 

\--

You wait until the sound of bootsteps fades away completely before you slip out of the stairwell door. There were still men on the deck but they had their backs to you, standing at their posts or toiling away at whatever late-night task they had been assigned. You press yourself against the wall joining the two stairwells, trying hard to keep whoever might be at the helm from seeing you. It was likely Nico or Magda given the day of the week but you never could predict when Salazar would take the duty upon himself. Your footsteps are light as a feather as you edge along the wall, your outstretched hand grasping the doorknob to Lesaro’s stairwell. You manage to open it without much fuss, slipping inside unseen much to your pride and satisfaction. If Guille had seen you, he’d probably be impressed. 

The thought of him stirs the butterflies in your stomach. You’d been thinking of him nonstop since earlier that evening. After your head had a chance to clear, you had been incredibly disappointed in yourself. After all, you had made a promise to the lieutenant that you would uphold your principles and not let him or the men down. He probably thought you were reprehensible or weak-willed. But you couldn’t beat yourself up too harshly—you’d never been with anyone before. 

That was another issue. You were no schoolgirl, by any means. You were an adult. But you’d been raised by the Church your whole life. Your mamá had left for France and soon after your papa had resorted to playing music on the street corner for money. He loved you, truly, but he could not keep you safe and fed. So he had given you up to the church. You were just barely old enough to remember him. The church was your entire world. And now, facing all of these new challenges, you felt completely unprepared. 

“Guillermo?” You whisper, knocking on his door as quietly as you could. “I’m here.”

His door swings open as though he has been standing by it all evening. He’s out of uniform and the sight entrances you momentarily. Lesaro peers out into the hall to make sure you were alone, then places a hand on your back, ushering you inside. 

“Thank you for being discreet, sister.” He closes the door and locks it behind him. “Its one thing for me to visit your cabin during the day. It is another thing entirely for you to visit mine at night.”

“I understand,” you look for a place to sit down and he guides you to a desk chair. He stays standing, looking uneasy. After a few seconds of shifting his weight onto his left and right feet, he stars to pace back and forth across the room. 

He says, “So clearly what happened earlier was a mistake. Agreed?” 

You take a deep breath, deliberate, then reply, “Yes I suppose so.”

“Right. It was a moment of weakness for both of us.” He puts the flat end of his palm against his chin and rubs at the slight stubble growing there. His other hand is behind his back, clenched in a tight fist. “Obviously neither of us really has feelings for the other.”

“No, I have feelings for you,” you confess. You saw no reason to lie at this point. 

He stops pacing and looks at you pleadingly. “No you don’t. I pressured you by confessing and you were too kind to tell me the truth.”

“Wh—,” your face scrunches in confusion and you tilt your head at him. “Is that what you think happened?”

“Yes,” he goes back to pacing but now he’s wringing both hands in front of his chest. “If we’re asked about it, then that is what happened.”

“Oh,” you murmur, still perplexed. “But . . . why would we be asked about it? No one saw.”

He stops again and this time he turns to face you, a mix of trepidation and anticipation on his face. He takes one step, standing right in front of your chair. Then he sinks down to one knee, reaching out and requesting that you put your hands in his. Your fingers shake as you indulge him, never breaking his stare. 

“I’ve thought about it,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a breathy whisper. You were both completely alone but he felt like the entire Catholic Church was in the room too. “The informant we captured today implied that our target is not as out of reach as we assumed. It won’t take us three months to catch up with him, let alone three years. And once we do, after all that business is dealt with, then the Capitán won’t care what happens next.” 

You must look as lost as you felt because he continues, patiently, “The Capitán only really cares about Jack Sparrow, the pirate that cost him—and all of us—our lives all those years ago. Killing him is Salazar’s true goal and initially, the Capitán thought that Sparrow was years away from being found. So he saw you as a threat to that mission. But now that we know the pirate is so close . . .” 

“My presence here isn’t a threat anymore,” you finish, realization dawning upon you. 

“Exactly,” he nods, smiling. “So, I have a proposition for you. We will find Sparrow in a matter of weeks and once that business is done and the Capitán is at peace . . . then perhaps you and I could . . .” 

He trails off, leading you to fill in the blanks for yourself. You’re squeezing his hands in excitement without realizing it, something that he finds incredibly charming. Lesaro watches as your face flickers between enthusiasm and discomfort. At last, you reply, “But the King . . . I will still have to report to him.”

“Yes, and what were you planning on telling him? You know that the curse is still among us.”

“I . . . I guess I was going to lie.” That had been the unspoken plan but saying it out loud made you feel guilty. “I’ll have to.”

“For that, I am truly sorry. You never should have been burdened with this. But that is our situation and we must live with it the best we can.” 

“And what about the church?” 

Here, Lesaro looks less certain. “That’s your choice, my dear. I can’t make it for you. Three years is a long time; we don’t know what might change later on. But I will never ask you to choose between me and your faith.” 

Your hands go slack in his own while you think, your heart racing with anxiety. 

“Listen,” Lesaro looks down at your hands in his own, running his thumb over your knuckles. “I spent all those condemned years within the Devil’s Triangle wondering why a just and knowing God would have allowed something like that to happen. Eventually I came to the conclusion that there was no divine answer behind my suffering. But . . . you and I wouldn’t be here right now if none of that had happened. So isn’t it . . . isn’t it worth trying?”

The _Mary_ sways back and forth, almost as if she was deliberately trying to push you closer to this man who had caught you completely by surprise. If you could go back to that day when you stood at the harbor, struggling against the sunlight to see him, would you have done anything differently? 

Absolutely not. 

You pull a single hand out of his grasp, slipping it behind his neck so that you could pull him closer and place a kiss on his lips. He relaxes against you with relief. 

“For you? Of course it is.”


End file.
